


Hamartia

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Sinners and Saints (Are The Same In The End) [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Betrayal, Cheating, Conspiracy, Everyone Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Relapse, Stand Alone, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, president jefferson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-05-05 09:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14614752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: A Political Campaign is always rife with rumours, scandals, and secrets.There's a reason Thomas Jefferson doesn't drink. It's just one more thing he can't control. Like the election. Like public favour. Like approval ratings. Like Vice President Burr. Like Alexander. Like Laurens. Like James.Everybody has their breaking point, and a re-election campaign seems to be the epicenter of the ensuing fallout.OrThomas Jefferson is an alcoholic. He'll only get himself into trouble. And drag everyone else along for the ride.





	1. Sit Back (and Relapse)

 

President Jefferson tilted the glass with every movement of his wrist, watching the liquid paint the tumbler's sides with an ephemeral honey-coloured stain. He sat alone, his eyes transfixed on the brown liquid in the glass. He silently cursed his shitty self-control, and even shittier liver, and the sobriety in which he'd have to live out his life.

"I hope you weren't planning on drinking that.” Alex's words were light, almost joking in their delivery.

Thomas jumped at the sound of Alex's voice behind him, spilling some liquor into his lap. When the the full reality of the situation dawned on him, Alexander’s tone sobered when he entered the room. He corrected himself with a somber, submissive bow of the head.

"Sir." He added, his emotionless eyes betraying the amount of practice behind the presented posture.

Thomas rested the tumbler on the table beside him, purposefully ignoring the implications of the statement. "You don't have to call me _Sir_ , Alex." he replied.

 _I’m not Washington,_ was what Thomas didn’t say. He knew it wouldn’t make a difference. As president, he would always be compared to Washington, whether he liked it or not. Thomas hated it; hated to think that even at home, Alex and James did the same. Thomas couldn’t hold it against either of them. Even if he had been hurt just the same, he had still lashed out before, and irresponsibly leveraged his power to get what he wanted. Thomas clenched his fists, not wanting to replay the image of his palms pressed bruisingly against Alex’s trachea. Any other time, he would have rolled his eyes at Alexander’s insistence on formalities, if his eyes weren’t still obsessed with the contents of the glass.

Alexander shook his head, shuffling into the room. As far as he was concerned, the realities of his relationship with the President and First Gentleman were deeply personal, and unable to be explained to the American public without accusations of moral depravity being thrown at them. The press was already calling for James’s head over the Mercer issue. Thomas might have found his emphasis on public modesty and private intimacy unnecessary, but Alex knew the importance of appearances. He knew they were more important than Thomas often cared to realize. The carpet beneath his feet was warm, and in his younger days, Alexander may have stood still and savoured the sensation as the fibres tickled his toes. But those days were gone, lost long ago, in a space between Colombian mahogany and a power-hungry sadist.

"What's the matter?" Alexander asked.

Of course, Alexander had some idea. It was somewhere in the way James had crawled into Alex's bed after eleven pm, begging him to keep the president at bay. Even with Alexander beside him, James had fretted all night. Alexander had watched helplessly, knowing that nothing he could do would quell James's very real fear of the nightmares he was reliving. Before, Alex used to hear the whimpers of _No Sir,_ and _Mercer_ , followed by the panicked movements of James’s body as he began his forever futile efforts to fight off his old professor’s advances.

On the nights when _Alex, Alex, Alexander_ came from James’s mouth, Alexander would take his cue to coax James from the nightmares, stroking James’s hair until his watering eyes came to reality and met Alex’s soft and comforting expression. When James awoke on those nights, he would sometimes sob into Alexander's shoulder, exhaling the confessions of his unconscious experiences with an overwhelming terror in his eyes.

On other nights, Alexander would have had to wrestle with his partner, gripping James’s wrists so tightly they would bruise, if only to prevent James’s blunt nails carving long lines into his dark skin. Would have had to pick himself off the ground when James socked him in the mouth, mistaking the body above him for his rapist. Would have had to subdue the sinking feeling in his chest when James avoided his eyes the day after, pretending not to see the split lip he had caused. Alex pretended it hadn’t hurt. Pretended not to notice the injuries he had failed to prevent.

But last night, when Thomas's name escaped as a strangled sound from James's lips - right before sunrise - Alexander was dumbfounded. It wasn't in the same tone in which his name used to erupt, loud and terrified, from James's slumber. It was short, crushed between a dozing tongue and bared teeth. There was no movement from James. Just his lips begging _Thomas, no, Thomas, Thom--_ before his eyes snapped open.

So, tonight, when Thomas's name struggled out of James's throat, Alexander was ready for the waterworks. But James, with lips swollen from biting into them, swallowed his thoughts, and stepped into the ensuite. Alex tried to reach for James, but he shook his head. There were no confessions tonight, just the sound of the shower running, and an empty space in Alex's bed.

Thomas's hand spanned the diameter of the glass, and Alex could tell that this was when Thomas would usually drink.

"James slept with you tonight?" Thomas's muscles tensed, as though to raise the glass, then relaxed, when Thomas had evaluated his decision.

Alexander wasn't sure what James had done could be called sleeping.

"Well, yes. But we didn't -”

"I know," Thomas said almost with a growl. The words had a sharp edge, rivalling whatever knife had caused the seven-year-old scars sunken into James's wrists. "Has he ever been like that before? With you?"

"Like what?"   Terrified? Engulfed in self-loathing?  

In his head, Thomas still heard the habitual address of _Sir._ He turned to Alex and beckoned him closer.

"He said my name." Thomas said. He heard the wavering in his own statement, his words weighed down by an inexplicable pain.

As opposed to Alex’s? As opposed to General Mercer's.

"Yes." Alexander said, but he knew that wasn't what Thomas meant. Alex knew Thomas was referring more to the _tone_ in which the First Gentleman had said it. So enraged, that he had left himself bloody, and Thomas alone in the master bedroom.

"Did he ever flinch when you got near him?"

"Sometimes," Alex said. He opened his mouth to say more, but closed it when he realised the extra information wouldn’t be helpful.

Thomas’s hands tensed around the glass again and Alex watched him swallow down imaginary scotch.

"Come." Thomas said, patting his lap.

Alexander seemed to float forwards, as though the request triggered something deep inside him. His legs moved of their own accord as they replayed earlier movements like a broken record. Alex visualized a younger version of himself doing the same without question. Visualized the younger Alexander snap to Washington’s side on command, and sink to his knees in front of the president with practiced precision. He paused in his movements, reminding himself that tonight was not then. That the worst was over. He was allowed to refuse. _But until when?_ Alexander frowned, lingering somewhere between the doorframe and Thomas’s chair.

"I am not a dog, Thomas."

"I'm sorry," Thomas blushed, "I know. Just… please."

Alexander's expression softened, with the need for closeness overtaking any offense he felt. He wrapped his arms around Thomas's neck – somewhat awkwardly – given the height difference. Then, he immediately rectified it by settling into Thomas's lap.

He turned to check for observers or eavesdroppers then kissed Thomas chastely on the lips. You could never be too careful.

"He loves you just as much as before." Alex whispered into Thomas’s neck. "He can't help the nightmares." Thomas enjoyed the way Alex's breath tickled him as Alex let his words ghost along the side of Thomas’s throat.

"It's never been this bad.” His voice broke as he said it, and Thomas cleared his throat to mask it. “He’s never screamed my name like that. Never… looked at me like I would hurt him.”

Thomas felt Alex frown against his neck and waited for a response but when none came, he continued talking.

“He used to dream about me being there sometimes. While Mercer was…” Thomas let out a shuddering breath, “Now, I’m the one forcing him to… that I’m the one raping him.” Thomas shook his head, sighing. He could smell the peppermint shampoo wafting from Alex’s hair, like he had washed it right before bed. “I don’t know how to help him; he can’t even stand to be in the same room as me anymore.”

Thomas let his head fall back in defeat. Alexander saw the pain in Thomas’s face, wanting to kiss it away. He raised his hands up and into Thomas’s hair, running his fingers through the curls. Alex exhaled, long and hard. “You can still –“

“No, I can’t!” Thomas was almost vibrating with the force with which he said the words. Thomas’s words slipped into French, as he became more and more agitated. A tempest of emotions played out on his face. {“He’s scared of me, Alex. My husband thinks I’m going to hurt him. Every time I get near him, he flinches.”}

“You know it isn’t you.” Alex whispered. His voice was hushed, accompanied by a sad smile. “I know it isn’t you. He knows it isn’t you.”

“Alex, fuck me.” Thomas said the words so impulsively; Alexander had to shake his head to ensure he had heard correctly. Alexander’s suspicions were confirmed when Thomas snapped his hips upwards, and began grinding against Alex’s ass.

“Thomas…” Alexander whispered, raising his head to look at the President of the United States, “this isn’t what you want.”

Thomas didn’t refute Alex’s statement. He ducked his head, planting a kiss on Alexander’s neck, nipping gently. He tugged at Alex’s ponytail, watching it come undone as Thomas toyed with the hair-tie between his fingers. Alex allowed the action, leaning his head back, and exposing the long column of his neck to Thomas’s lips. Thomas’s stubble scratched lightly against his skin, and Alex moaned softly, relished the attention for just a few moments longer before resting a firm palm on Thomas’s chest. When Alex realized what he’d done, he braced himself for the oncoming blow, waiting for Thomas’s face to contort in anger, for the hand in his hair to twist and yank him to floor, for clenched fists to punish him for the audacity of his refusal. But Thomas didn’t look angry, just… defeated.

Thomas hid the expression in Alex’s hair, peppermint dancing in his nostrils. Alex felt him nod in agreement, face musing his hair with the friction. Neither of them _really_ wanted this. Not right now. Alexander kissed Thomas resoundingly, and Thomas pretended not to feel the sense of consolation it came with.

“Where is he?” Thomas asked when they parted.

“When I left, he was in the shower.”

“You should get back.” Thomas said with a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. And Alexander noticed. “It’s a big day tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

“So should you.” Alex whispered, staring him in the face. He eased himself off of Thomas and into standing position. “Seriously. The campaign strategizing can wait.” The corners of his mouth were flat, but his expression was soft. Alex held a hand out in an offer to guide Thomas, which he accepted. The president groaned as his fatigued limbs popped and he rose to full height. He reached for his cane, eyes darting to the forgotten scotch for a millisecond.

“I don’t think I’m ready to tuck in for the night.” Thomas lied, “I think I’ll walk for a bit. Just till my leg loosens up.” He tapped the foot of his cane against his clothed calf for effect.

“Right. Well,” Alex said. He pivoted to the left side of Thomas, bending down to retrieve the tumbler. He raised it as if to toast. In one fluid movement, the liquid was gone in an overambitious gulp. Thomas watched the goosebumps raise along Alex’s skin, saw him flush pink as the scotch swirled round his tongue and down his beautiful throat. Alex mimicked Thomas’s action, and slammed the glass back on the table for effect.

“Enjoy your ‘ _walk’._ ” he said with a smirk.

Thomas smiled a knowing smile, hands travelling to rest on Alex’s hips. As much as Thomas wanted to challenge the action, he had to give Alexander props for the ingenuity. He drew Alex close, just taking him in. He leaned into Alex, pressing a kiss to the man’s cheek.

“Good night, Alexander.” Thomas said, mouth warm and tingly with fondness as he spoke the man’s name.

Alexander smiled in return, accepting the non-verbal _thank you_. He carefully removed himself from within Thomas’s embrace, skipping over to the doorway in way he knew was quicker than Thomas could follow. As Thomas leaned on his cane, he stared after Alex, who had already made it down the hall. With hair spread messily across his shoulders, Alexander turned his head to the smitten president.

“Good night,” The formalities were back in place, but the twinkle in Hamilton’s eyes divulged how he truly felt. “Mister President.”

 


	2. Security Clearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John Laurens was a man of intimidating posture, and a deceptively charming demeanour. Like any other soldier, he had been trained to kill, both with impunity and precision."

 

“Are we going to talk about last night?” Alexander asked softly into the long silence.

James looked up from his tablet questionably as if to say _what do mean,_ _last night?_ hoping it didn’t mean discussing the specifics of his nightmares. Alexander pretended not to feel his partner’s eyes on him as he fixed his attention on the president. He expected Thomas to brush it off: at best, to ignore him and leave the room, or at worst, shove him over a desk and ignore his pleas. Alexander was sure Thomas was capable, and so, as awkward as it was, he was glad he had James as a witness.

“I’m stressed out, and…” Thomas began, “and… scared.” He exhaled deeply, not particularly wanting to have this discussion, but desirous of the intimacy entrusting his innermost thoughts would allow him. “I’m losing points in Virginia.”

“It’s about Mercer, isn’t it?” James’s voice was curious and free of judgement. His hands dropped, the tablet with them, into his lap. Today was a good day, relatively speaking. That is to say, that James could sit in the same room as Thomas without having a panic attack. Still, James sat nearer to Alexander than to his husband, and the trembling in his hands would not abate.

“And Washington,” Thomas nodded at James. “The papers are publishing every little detail they can imagine. It’s only a matter of time before they just attack me directly.” They had already found out that the cane wasn’t _entirely_ cosmetic. “If I lose our home state, I lose the election.”

“Have you been seeing Eliza?”

“I don’t know where the papers are getting their information from. If they’re following me, I can’t be seen going to a therapist. Our PR department is already finding it damn near impossible to spin Mercer in a positive light.” Thomas dragged a hand down his face, rubbing at the bags under his eyes. Both Alexander and James had, over time, come to know Thomas’s idiosyncrasies quite intimately.  
“Y’all don’t know how much I wanna drink right now.” The Southern accent, thick like overcooked grits, only slipped out when Thomas was under inordinate amounts of stress; although, the admission that Thomas had entertained the thought of relapse would have given away his emotional state, even without the complementary accent.

The conversation lulled, as all parties retreated internally, none wanting to be the first to potentially misspeak. The silence played between them, marked by pointed stares and the twitching of impenetrable lips. Thankfully, or perhaps not, the lingering quiet was interrupted by Vice President Burr’s Chief of Staff.

“Mister President, Sir?” Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was a man of intimidating posture, and a deceptively charming demeanour. Like any other soldier, he had been trained to kill, both with impunity and precision. Now a Secret Service Agent, Laurens’ eyes were watchful, forever seeking out threats – visible or potential – to the Jefferson Administration. He had proven himself loyal and fearless, once diving in the way of a bullet directed at James, and was duly rewarded with promotion, pay raise, medallion, and medal. Still, with his promotion putting him in such close proximity to Burr, Thomas’s gratitude was beginning to be outweighed by a wary detachment from Laurens’ personal life.

“Lieutenant.” Thomas said, standing to greet Laurens. The president offered a hand to shake, but Laurens looked anxious as he accepted. He tilted his head towards the door whispering something that sounded a lot like

“They don’t have security clearance, Sir.”

Thomas nodded, but hand-waved the excuse. “I understand your reservations, Laurens, but I can assure that they have clearance.”

“You’d need to sign here, then, Sir. To make it official...” Laurens said as he drew his brows downwards in an unconscious expression of disapproval. Nonetheless, he turned the clipboard in his hand towards Thomas. “Also, a form to expedite Hamilton’s daily security checks…? The perimeter guards out front are getting tired of Hamilton yelling about his _right to bear arms_ at four o’clock each morning.” Laurens said the words with small chuckle, but his posture was still tense. Vigilant.

Thomas cringed. Of course Alexander was still rubbing people the wrong way, treating the process as thought it was somehow ingrained in his inherent nature. Still, Thomas was impressed that Alexander had quoted from the James’s premiere version of the US Constitution to do it. A version that only the Continental Congress had seen in person, before it was locked away in a vault at Fort Knox.

“Can’t I exclude him altogether?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Laurens glared as though Thomas had insulted his mother, “No special treatment. Not even for the Special Advisor to the President.”

Thomas unhooked a pen clip from his shirt pocket, and depressed the top, allowing the solid click to reveal the ballpoint. He examined the document carefully, initialling the two relevant boxes labelled with the bestowed titles of James (First Gentleman) and Alexander (Special Advisor). He exhaled, lifting his pen slightly, before signing his name in one fluid motion, leaving a cursive flourish in black ink at the bottom right corner of the paper. Laurens turned the page, pointing to a box that would permit Alexander to carry his service weapon on the Presidential Grounds, so long as he kept the weapon up to standard, offered it for random inspection, and maintained his Marksmanship Qualification. Thomas initialled that box as well, replicating his previous signature.

“What is it that you wanted to tell me?”

Laurens shook his head. “Mister President, Sir. You are aware that Virginia has become a swing state, despite both you and the First Gentleman being her beloved statesmen?” Laurens began, all indications of nervousness dismissed as the clipboard was relegated to a position behind his back. His right hand remained causally by his side, fingers always tingling with a readiness to shoot if need be. “That is because there is a man from Virginia, Charles Lee, making some wild accusations in an attempt to impugn your character.”

“What kind of accusations?”

“Accusations of rape, Sir.”

Thomas’s expression soured. He had expected _cowardice_ or _francophilia_ or _desertion_ , but not… not that.

“Lee claims you worked with Washington in a type of underground prostitution ring, and that you partook, facilitated, and/or observed orgies and/or drug-fuelled sex parties.” Laurens didn’t waver, despite the gravity of his words. “FBI Director Reynolds has him under surveillance, as she believed detaining him would attract too much press.”

“Where is Lee now?” Thomas asked, careful to monitor his tone.

“He lives downtown, Sir.” Laurens stated. He frowned as though deep in thought, then returned to his former posture. “Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Permission granted.” Thomas said.

“I know you are a man of honour, Sir. This Lee nonsense will resolve itself. The American people are smart an---“

“The American people love a good story, Laurens.”

“Yes, Sir. My point is…” Laurens cleared his throat. “We all know Lee is talking bullshit, and the fact that The Washington Advocate is printing it, shows that the paper is bullshit too. Did you see what they printed two weeks ago?”

Of course he had. It was half the reason his fingers had found themselves clenched around a crystal tumbler last night. The other half was the new-found look of abject terror in James’s eyes whenever Thomas got within a newly – and vaguely – defined distance of _‘too close’_ to him.

“No,” Thomas lied, “I make it a habit to avoid the tabloids. What did it say?”

“That Mister Madison was a scoundrel in college, Sir. That he slept with a professor to pass his course in Government, and that he is thus undeserving of his proximity to our government’s highest office. Also, that you had intimate knowledge of, and covered up Washington’s malfeasance.” Laurens paused in his recount, before continuing with, “Others still imply you colluded with Hamilton to falsely accuse, and disparage Washington’s great name, in a duplicitous pursuit of power. I’m certain that you could sue them for libel.”

“Washington pled guilty, and I delivered a public disavowal of his deeds, and a commitment to transparency.” Thomas scowled momentarily before schooling his expression. “I won by popular vote.”

“That’s how I know it’s all nonsense. The whole staff knows it too. So, if nothing else, you have all of us on your side, Sir.”

“Thank you for letting me know, Laurens.” Thomas said. He knew his words were convincing. But he couldn’t convince himself, Alexander, or James of that.

Laurens nodded, snapping to attention. He raised his right arm, parallel to the ground, then bent his hand inward to rest above his eyebrow in a slick salute.

“Mister President.” Laurens acknowledged respectfully. The hand’s return journey was swift and clean, completed with a sense of pride and professionalism that showed Laurens deserving of his rank.

Thomas returned the salute. “You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, Sir.”


	3. Soldiers and Schoolboy Crushes

 

“You don’t want to come up?” Thomas asked, gesturing away from the dining table.

“Uh, no, not yet.” Alexander said, “I think I’m gonna stay down here for a bit, go over the agenda for your next campaign event.”

Thomas paused. “Virginia?”

Alexander flipped the top of the folder closed over the stack of papers with impractically small font. He imagined the life he could have as private citizen; up in Monticello or Montpelier, where he wouldn't have to hide his affections for James or Thomas. But until then, Alexander had a job to do. He shook his head, answering, “Ohio.”

“Hmm. I don’t want a Virginia event until this Mercer thing clears, you hear me?” Thomas replied with a wave, “Other than that, you know where everything is,”

“Yeah, Laurens is bringing the plans for your route and secur--”

“You sure it’s a good idea to have him on this? He’s still Burr’s golden boy.”

“Well, Burr **is** coming with you.” Alexander pointed out, “Do you not trust him?”

Thomas remained silent.

“Laurens took a bullet for James. And I know him to be a damn good soldier.” Alexander said, voice sharp, clearly indignant, “What's this suspicion about?”

Thomas sighed, “Y’know what, yeah. You’re right. I dunno what I was thinking.” He smoothed his palm over the crown of his head, directing the stray curls in the direction of his bun. “Just… make sure you get some sleep, okay?” Thomas rested his hand gently on the file in front of Alexander, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead, “goodnight.”

"Y'know I once saw him stab three redcoats in a gunfight..?" Alexander is beaming, shaking his head, "Seriously, Thomas. You're in good hands."

Thomas doesn't look convinced, "I believe you."

“Good night, Thomas.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m jealous of Laurens,” Thomas said through gritted teeth. James almost choked. He spat the toothpaste from his mouth, and turned the tap on to rinse the residue.

“I’m sorry, what?” James chuckled, “Why?”

“He has access to Alexander in a way I don’t.” Thomas flopped down on the bed with a huff. Frankly, Thomas was acting like a child, but James wouldn’t take the time to tell him so now.

“You’re going to have to be more specific. He’s, for all intents and purposes, married to us.”

“I know, but… Laurens and Burr and Alexander all lay their lives on the line for this country. Their potential as casualties is what guaranteed my presidency. Even now, they jeopardize themselves, and for wh--”

“You feel guilty,” James said, drifting away from the ensuite. He flicked the light switch, shrouding the room in darkness, using muscle memory to guide himself to the bed. He sat on the edge opposite Thomas, but never facing him. “Why?”

“Before Alex went to see Washington in prison, he came here.” Thomas started, and James could hear the hesitation in his voice, could visualize the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed whatever he didn’t want to feel.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I’m telling you now.” Thomas said simply, “I never know what he wants from me. I-if I’m gentle with him, he pushes my buttons; knows just how to make me want to hurt him. But when he reads hostility in the room, he cowers before me. Looks at me like I’m…”

“Washington.” James finished as he forced back the tears pricking in his eyes, “I d-don’t… I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“James,”

“The last time we talked about Alexander like this, you threatened me with divorce.” James clenched his fists, then released them as he exhaled. “Thomas, I can’t pretend that this…that I’m okay. This campaign, the Presidency… I can’t. You need to see Eliza.”

“I will,” Thomas rolled over, crossing to James’s side of the bed to sit beside his husband, “I promise.”

“You said that the last time,” James whispered into Thomas’s shoulder, stray fingers creeping up Thomas’s spine, yearning to bury themselves in the safety of his curls.

“I’ll make an appointment right now,” Thomas affirmed, though he didn’t move. He didn’t ever know what he wanted, but in this moment, he needed to stay his husband’s arms. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, away from the demands of the presidency or campaigning… just here. “I’ll go see Eliza right after the stop in Ohio.”

 

* * *

 

Alexander nodded, never wavering in his concentration. In fact, he was so focused, he didn’t notice Laurens laughing until the lieutenant colonel began to speak again.

“Well,” Laurens said cheerfully, “at least you went through the pretense of getting a glass!”

“You expected me to head the bottle?” Alexander looked up expectantly, “I’m West Indian, John, not an animal.”

“I actually hoped you’d head something else,” Laurens leaned casually against the wall, supported by his shoulders pressing against drywall. “I think you’re qu--”

“Inappropriate.”

Laurens swiped the glass of wine as he pulled out the chair next to Alexander. “Jefferson does. I figured that you would ha--” Alexander sputtered, pushing away from the table. He really hoped Laurens was referring to drinking, and not infidelity. How much did Laurens know about his relationship with James and Thomas? He didn’t know which one would break James. Either one would crush Alexander.

“I am the President’s Special Advisor, not his pet. He has his way of doing things, I have mine.” Alexander said firmly, resisting the urge to pull rank on the subordinate officer. “Plus, we’re off topic.” He pointed to an area on the top half of the blueprints before sliding it over so Laurens could see it. “I propose we deploy Hemmings’ team here to cover all the northern exits.”

  
“Hmm.” Laurens finished the glass and poured himself another. “I agree. I’ll take the south, since I’m assuming you’ll be on Jefferson’s personal detail?”

“Exactly, now o--”

“Speaking of personal details, how do you work for them?” Laurens asked, tapping the rim of glass against his teeth as he waited for an answer. Laurens looked genuinely curious, so, although wary, Alexander decided to humour the Lieutenant Colonel.

“What do you mean?” Alexander asked, feigning ignorance.

“Madison and Jefferson,” Laurens said softly.

Swallowing his scowl with a yawn, Alexander replied, “Thomas and James? We’ve known each other for decades.”

“That’s what I mean,” Laurens gulped the last of the red wine smiling softly, “I know you were engaged to James. I mean, Thomas stole your fiance, technically.”

“Uh uh. Me… James and I were done before Thomas appeared on the scene.” Alexander struggled to school his expression as the possibility of what could have been reappeared in his imagination.

“Then why do you never speak about it?”

“You don’t think the White House has enough gossip to go around?”

Laurens titled his head to the side in a show of sympathy, “I’m just saying you sound kinda sad, or b--”

“Thomas didn’t steal anything from me, okay, so if we could g--”

“Except the Presidency?”

“Laurens, that is enough.” Alexander’s voice with the same tone of battlefield command, and he saw the change in Laurens’ demeanour immediately. “Have some respect, if not for a superior officer, then for your President.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. Seriously.” John sat up straight, eyes focused, “Tell me about the plan for the roof.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I shouldn’t have made you clean up my mess,” Thomas said, easing out of James’s embrace to flick on the bedside lamp. The lamp splashed the room with light, and Thomas blinked the sensitivity away from his eyes. “I should have known the stress this would place on us both.”

“I’m being selfish,” James muttered, “This is your dream,”

“And what about yours?” Thomas tilted his head to the side as James turned to face him, “you spend all your time as First Gentleman… you bear the brunt of the strain. You stop me from killing Alex, and Alex from killing himself…”

“Thomas.”

“I didn’t even ask your permission before I ran. I just assumed that you’d be okay with it.”

“Thomas.” James had convinced himself that he was okay with it, but he wasn’t so sure now, not with his trauma being put on trial after the fact. But he coped. Maybe he didn’t drink like Thomas had, or seek out painful encounters like Alex had, but he had his own way. And as long as that way never led to Alex or Thomas finding him passed out in the shower with water running pink, then James could convince himself that it was healthy. Distraction was healthy. He ran a thumb over the raised scar at his wrist, almost lovingly.

“James?”

“Huh?”

Thomas squinted at James, a question hanging on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it. “You went quiet.”

“We should get Alexander a ring, together.”

“That’s a lovely idea,” Thomas replied, “but people would ask who he’s married to.”

James propped himself up on his elbows, “He could wear it round his neck..?”

“So someone can choke him with the chain?” Thomas paused, “Then again, he'd probably like it.”

James slapped Thomas on the arm, “Don’t be a dick,” he said, chuckling to himself. Thomas held the hand captive against his arm. Could feel the raised scar touching his pinky finger, but he paid it no mind. When Thomas lingered, wouldn’t let go, James yanked his arm back -- bringing Thomas with it. James rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

Thomas smirked, knees anchored in place on either side of James’s torso. Thomas finally let go, and James let his hand fall. “Are you okay with this?”

“Are we seriously playing this game?” James grinned, “It’s been ages.”

Thomas nodded, bending down to kiss James softly. He paused when James quivered between him, raising his head to check on James’s wellbeing.

“Oh my god... how are you... already... hard?” James said between the giggles that overtook him. “What are you? A _teenager_?”

Thomas let his hands slide their way up to James’s shoulders, the change in position causing his dick to rut against James’s pant leg. Thomas exhaled slowly, in a hurried attempt to hide how flustered he was at the contact. “It’s been _ages_.”

“You know what you need?” James’s tone was smug, and they both knew it.

Thomas whined, nodding eagerly. The sound, long and frustrated, quickly turned more needy and guttural as James’s hand sunk below his husband’s waistband.

 

* * *

 

 

Alexander’s face was flushed, his hands framing Laurens’ equally flushed face just inches away.

“I didn’t know freckles could change colour,” Alexander breathed, the soft scent of plums and cherries floating with it. He’s tipsy and he knows it. The freckles on Laurens’ face are dancing a waltz, and Alexander hones in on them, doing everything in his power to stop them from moving.

“I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me,” Laurens giggled nervously, like a schoolboy with a crush. The two empty bottles of wine stood discarded at the end of the table, alongside a nearly full one that Alexander hadn’t trusted Laurens not to knock over with his antics. Laurens moved gently out of Alexander’s grasp, raising his fingers to his tingling lips.

“Why do you work for them?”

“I work for the DHS.” Laurens corrected with an emphatic raise of his index finger.

Alexander scoffed, “It’s all the same in the end, isn’t it? Your employment is still as tenous as mine, contingent on the public image and president’s favour, no?”

“Tenuous, oh no. Thomas loves you.”

Alexander opened his mouth to protest, but Laurens silenced him.

“Not like that.” Laurens clapped once and made a grab for the bottle that was a little out of reach. “I’m just saying that I see how he looks at you.”

“And how’s that?” Alexander asked leaning in.

Laurens shrugged, making a noise of non committance as he raised the bottle to his lips. But the knowing smile, half-hidden by the rim, made Alexander uneasy. Laurens rested the bottle on the table, swallowing around his current mouthful before switching the topic. “Look, I needed to show the world that I wasn’t just some rich general’s stupid son.”

“So you were born into privilege; sounds terrible.” Alexander tried not to let his bitterness be as obvious as it felt, “Your father was present.”

“As _present_ as a soldier can ever be, I suppose.”

“Looks like you still took after him, military career and all.”

“Like you took after yours?” Laurens challenged, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. There was no time for pretense now. Laurens knew he could be provocative when he wanted to, could create rage where there was none. “James A. Hamilton, the failed foreigner!”

But Alexander didn’t take the bait, “Touche.”

“Wait,” Laurens said softer, “You have no idea who my father is, do you?”

“Should I?” Alexander scoffed, “Forgive me for focusing on fighting the war instead of hosting soirees for every general on our side, Laurens.”

“I have seen action. We fought in the same war, Major-General. You don’t need to talk down to me.”

Hamilton guffawed, pouring himself another glass of wine as he pushed the mountain of files away from him. “I stopped being a soldier a loooong time ago, John. How do you know my rank? We never served in the same regiment.”

“My father insisted on hosting soirees. I was expected to know who’s who.” Laurens rolled his eyes, not aware of how close Alexander was pressed against him until a pair of lips were clumsily colliding with his. Laurens smiled into the kiss before mumbling, “ _inappropriate,_ ” against Alex's lips. 

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas grunted as he shifted his weight, forcing himself off the bed.

“Jesus, you are a teenager.” James smiled, his eyes full of wonder, “I can’t believe you came in your pants.”

“I--” Thomas attempted to muster up some dignified phrase, but promptly gave up as he tossed his soiled pants into the hamper. “Whatever.”

“Seriously though, come over here and cuddle with me,” James pouted, big puppy-dog eyes on display. “It’s soooo cold without yoooouuu.” He said, practically singing.

“Hold on, I wanna show you something I got for our anniversary.”

“Um,” The sheets beneath James rustled as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I understand being proactive, but our anniversary isn’t for another two months.”

“No, I mean something for Alexander.” Thomas gestured widely, before grabbing a clean pair of shorts, “ _Our_ anniversary. I know one thing he wanted; it always came up in arguments.”

“And what’s that..?” James asked, even though he already knew.

“I can’t claim him in public. That he’s somehow ‘lesser’ in the relationship because he isn’t legally married to either of us.”

“So,” James stood up, “you already got him a ring?”

“Even better,” Thomas beamed, ever so proud of himself. He slid his ring off, placing the perfect gold band gently on the counter. He held his hand out, and James took it, peering closely.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” Thomas said with a grin, “and it hurt like a bitch.”

The stripe of skin usually covered by the wedding band was lighter than the rest of Thomas’s fingers, that was a given. But what lay on top of that lighter skin was dark ink in the shape of a cursive A, neat and painstakingly decorative. Thomas then presented his pale palm, where, in the space diametrically opposed to the A, lay a similarly ornate H.  
Thomas’s fingers danced around the soft palm, interlocking with James’s, his ring reflecting the tattoo on Thomas’s finger.  


“It’s beautiful,” James breathed, “He’ll love it.”

 

 

 


	4. Too Far Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James shuddered at the thought of Laurens ever resembling the small, trembling Alexander, stuck under Washington’s, or his father’s thumb.

  
James had only padded down the stairs for a glass of water. It was after one in the morning, and with Thomas long asleep -- for the first time since those papers had been published -- and himself able to overcome the stress for long enough to sleep in the same bed as his husband without screaming bloody murder, life was looking up for the time being. Until now.

“John...” James recognized Alexander’s voice immediately.

James can’t help but fix his eyes on the scene unfolding just metres away. The lieutenant colonel in jeans and a dress shirt, holster still fixed to his hip, was pressed up against Special Advisor to the President, Alexander Hamilton, in a way that caused James’s eyebrows to almost reach his hairline. Alexander, being the shorter of the two, was perched on the dining table, kept in position by Laurens’ strategic placement between his legs. The soldier's hands were invisible from James’s vantage point, hidden perhaps on Alexander’s hips, or between their bodies. Laurens buried his face in the crook of Alexander’s neck, and in the silence, James heard the audible mixture of rustling clothing, heavy breathing, and faint sucking.

“John, don’t...” Again Alexander’s voice was soft, almost diplomatic. James paused. He knew the two had both served as soldiers under Washington, but from what he’d heard and seen, they had always held each other in a contemptuous light. Alexander had been promoted over Laurens, at every turn, so to be on a first-name basis struck James as odd. Unless they had something more than slick hair and tanned skin in common…

James shuddered at the thought of Laurens ever resembling the small, trembling Alexander, stuck under Washington’s, or his father’s thumb.

Alexander’s hands came up to rest on Laurens’ shoulders, fingertips digging in, in an attempt to push the man away. Laurens leant back some, his foot sliding backwards to balance himself; but he barely budged.

James ducked into the shadow of the partitioning wall, hands searching for a weapon. If he needed to, he would do whatever it took – even kill Laurens – if it meant Alexander would be safe. Laurens may have saved James’s life once, but he wouldn’t allow the man to ruin another. James shook the imaginary weight from his shoulders; he may have missed the signs with Washington, but it wouldn’t happen again. There was no way that he could let Alexander to suffer in silence, again.

“…stop...”

There was laughter from Laurens, and James wondered if Washington had been the same, all greedy tongue, grabby hands, deaf ears, and cold, ravenous eyes. The sounds of skin on skin fill the room, and James knows, in that moment, that he has to do something.

“Pl-please...” Alexander whined.

It was the last straw. James allowed himself to be pulled out of the shadows, looking for a weapon as he did. He couldn’t be unarmed when facing off against a trained marksman. But James stopped dead when he heard Alexander moan, a long sound unmistakably rooted in pleasure.

“Oh, god! Don’t… stop…”

Alexander’s breath was short, and as James continued to watch, he blushed red, his face growing hotter and hotter as he realised he had misread the entire situation. He ducked back into the shadows, stumbling up the stairs as he attempted to process what he had just witnessed. James shuffled through the hall until he reached the Master Bedroom. He turned the knob then paused, letting the door click shut, leaving a sleeping Thomas on the other side, peaceful and unaware of his husband’s absence, or their partner’s extra-curricular activities.

James pivoted, and strode across the wing to Alexander’s bedroom. Hamilton would answer for his actions before sunrise.

 


	5. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, {curly/squiggly brackets} means the dialogue is spoken in French.

 

“James said you needed to tell me something?” Thomas looks up at Alexander, soft eyes betraying the affection he held for his advisor. Maybe this is the look that Laurens had been referring to. Thomas put down his pen, standing to greet Alexander with a kiss on the cheek, and a gentle hand on the small of his back. Alexander leans against it, thankful that for a brief second he doesn’t have to support his own weight. When Thomas moves away, Alex wobbles a little but manages to remain upright.

Alexander is already tongue-tied. For all of the late-night conversation they had had, at varying levels of volume (“ _You_ _don’t get to cheat on my husband just because you don’t wear a ring!” // “At least he claims you in public! What do I have?”)_ , James had left Alexander with the simple recommendation of letting Thomas know about Alexander’s _connection_ to Lieutenant Colonel Laurens. And, of course, knowing that James had his best interests at heart, Alexander decided to follow through, with one condition: that James would wait for him just outside.

Right now, Thomas looked happy enough to see him, which meant James hadn’t told the president about Alexander’s late-night rendezvous with Laurens. James had held up his end of the bargain, and now Alexander would hold up his.

If only his throat would cooperate.

“Alexander, are you okay?” Thomas’s brows are furrowed, confused at Alexander’s extended silence. He sees the worry in Alexander’s eyes, and knows in a second that something bad has happened. “What’s wrong?”

Alexander can’t tell him. Alexander can’t tell Thomas that he cheated. He knows how possessive presidents can be over their playthings; knows that he won’t leave this room without at least a black eye, split lip and an inability to walk straight for the next few days. He has seen Thomas’s anger before, when nothing Alexander did could stop the burning hatred in Thomas’s eyes or the nails digging into the sides of Alexander’s neck. His throat is sore but it’s nothing less than he deserves, to be fucked and thrown away. Washington had told him that, over and over, had all but carved the words into his brainstem. And now Thomas would do the same.

“I deserve it.” The words are hollow, and Alexander isn’t sure Thomas heard them until the president replies.

“...Deserve what, Alexander?”

“I-- Whatever you’re going to do,” Alexander grimaces as he approaches the president with an awkward gait. He is still sore from the night before, and it’s evident in his uneven footsteps and slight limp as he closes the gap between him and Thomas. “I deserve it. I deserve the pain.”

“Why?” Thomas shakes his head, “W-what do you mean? You don’t deserve to be hurt.” 

“Yes, I do.” Alexander mutters, eyes fixed to the floor. His strides are hesitant, as he is a prisoner trudging up the steps to the guillotine. “I’m just another _insatiable slut_.”

“Wha-- Who said that?” Thomas’s mouth hangs open in shock, as his brain works to understand exactly what Alexander is talking about. “Washington?”

“No,” Alexander slumps further, his lips trembling so much, he can barely get the words out, “I-I mean, y-yes, and he was r-right, h-he knew what I was g-good for, and y-you knew, and n-now--”

It doesn’t take long for Thomas to put two and two together. Thomas’s tight grip spans Alexander’s wrist as soon as Alexander is within reach. Thomas is silent, jaw locked and teeth barred in an unparalleled fury. Thomas’s posture is stiff as he eliminates the space between them; The President standing flush against his Advisor, leaning down to growl in his ear.

 

“Look at me.” Thomas says firmly, trying to hide his rage, trying not to direct it towards Alexander, “Who. The. Fuck. Was. It?”

Alexander trembles. He had expected an explosive mixture of yelling and fists and pain, but this scares him more. Whenever Washington became silent, Alexander knew he would be left with more than a few new scars. He isn’t surprised, though. Thomas must have seen it, maybe even smelt it on him, the sweat, the sex, the shame, that he was fundamentally nothing more than a slut. Alexander flinches away from Thomas’s touch, feeling the ghost of Washington’s hands choking him, as Thomas presses his thumb painfully into the purple bruising on the side of his neck.

“I didn’t make that.” Thomas said slowly, as though he had to think of each word before he spoke it. “And I know James didn’t.”

He can see Alexander’s eyes glazing over, can see the man retreat into himself, the same way he always does when faced with this fear. Thomas attempts to coax Alexander out of his fugue state, but Alexander remains unresponsive. Thomas needs to know; he had vowed to protect Alexander, and if he let someone take advantage of Alexander without consequence, he had failed as a partner. James always knew exactly how to fix this, but wouldn’t do it without scolding Thomas first. So, Thomas does what he knows will cause a reaction. He tightens his grip on Alex’s wrist, unaware that James is in the hallway, watching the entire exchange.

Alexander hisses in pain, wanting to pull away, but senses he won’t get far. The only way out of this situation is to play by Thomas’s rules. He finally tilts his head up to meet Thomas’s gaze.

“Please,” he breathes, “don’t break it.”

He can’t afford a broken wrist. He knows he deserves it, but he can’t afford to go get medical treatment – that is, if Thomas would even let him – for a broken wrist, not now, when all of their actions are under such close scrutiny. The doctors would ask too many questions that he would refuse to answer, and the minute Thomas found out, Alexander would have it a million times worse.

Alexander thinks back to his bedroom across the wing, maps out the location of every bandage and piece of gauze, the scissors, and the Band-Aids of the first aid kit. His gun in the bottom left drawer of the dresser, needle and thread on top of that, in case Thomas had the desire to play doctor and cut him open. In some ways, Alexander is grateful for his wartime career; his knowledge of field medicine allows him to care for his injuries without provoking presidential ire, or necessitating any more intimate interactions, like the ones that came with dressing a wound.

He should have just walked in and apologized, instead of provoking Thomas into potentially breaking all the bones in his writing arm. He has preparation for almost every possible injury, but lacks the materials to make a cast. He could probably fashion one from wooden spoons and duct tape and…

Thomas grips harder, refusing to back down this time. He knows he is hurting Alexander, but tells himself that it’s for a good reason. He’s thinking of a future when Alexander will be safe from sexual violence. He needs to know who had violated Alexander, who had pinned him down, and who had still been so arrogant as to leave visible evidence of the attack.

“Then tell me who left those hickeys on you.”

“Thomas,”

“Tell me,” Thomas growls, tugging roughly at Alexander’s wrist. There was no more space to go, not really, and Alexander suddenly feels smothered, “Before I have to turn the _country_ upside down looking for him.”

“Laurens,” Alexander whispers, eyes tightly shut in an effort to regulate his breathing. Screaming would turn a potential sprain into a real fracture, and only attract more attention. He bows his head in shame, before adding, “Last night.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Thomas’s nostrils flare at the name, and he releases Alexander immediately, but doesn’t move. He raises his arm, jabbing at the hickey with a reserved annoyance, before dragging a finger across the long purpling spread of skin. Where _Laurens_ had no doubt prioritized his own pleasure over Alexander’s pleas. They looked painful, in the shape of lips and bordered by the haphazard imprints of teeth, and Thomas guessed that some of them _must_ have bled, based on the new dotted scabs splayed across Alex’s neck in no real arrangement, dictated only by Laurens’ need to leave a mark…

Thomas fits his hand over the stretch of purple, if only out of curiosity, wondering how Alexander could have even coped with the extended discomfort before realizing that Alexander had no doubt been through far worse at Washington’s… and perhaps his own hand.

James, from his vantage point in the hallway, can see the tenseness in Thomas’s frame. He can’t hear anything above a whisper, but somehow things seem to be going way better than he thought they would. James knows his husband; and so knows how angry he can get sometimes, when faced with a situation he doesn’t know how to deal with. James made a note to use this situation to coax Thomas into going back to Schuyler Counselling, but how that would turn out was left to be seen. James mentally commends Thomas for not bursting out into a fit of anger, and just yelling until Alexander cried... James shuffles away, thinking the situation is under control.

Thomas’s anger is understandable, restrained, composed.

Alexander would disagree.

Alexander’s fingers are numb as the weight of Thomas’s hand settles on his windpipe. He’s going to die here, with President Jefferson’s face being the last thing he ever sees. He wants to beg for his life, and hopes the President is feeling forgiving. But Alexander doesn’t deserve forgiveness, he deserves to be punished, to suffer, to die. When someone as pure and bright as Lafayette can die completely alone and be disposed of like trash, what worth is Alexander?

Alexander closes his eyes, resigning himself to the fact that he’ll die here. Unfortunately, his brain doesn’t get the memo. He must look pathetic, tears streaming down his face as his body struggles against the seeming collapse of his ribcage. He’s shaking, the sweat coating his forehead slick, mix with the tears, making his eyes burn.

Thomas, satisfied with his inspection of his Advisor’s neck, pivots away from Alexander, beginning to pace furiously. His footsteps are so loud, he doesn’t hear James tiptoe away from the scene. The only sounds in the room are the President’s footsteps and Alexander’s gasping for air. Breathing is hard. Really hard. His vision begins to blur as he clutches his chest, counting his breaths in time with Thomas’s pacing.

“I am sorry.” Alexander chokes out, “ _Sir_.”

Thomas’s heart breaks at Alexander’s words. “It wasn’t your fault. You don’t need to apologize, A--” He turns to Alexander, finally registering how much difficulty the man is in. Thomas kisses Alexander softly, then envelops him in a hug, warm hand forever on the small of his back. Alexander allows his head to rest on Thomas’s shoulder, enjoying the comfort for far longer than he deserves. When he shakes his head frantically and pushes away, Thomas is forced to release him.

“I begged for Laurens’ cock.” Alexander declared, as well as he could with half his usual oxygen supply, “I’m just a whore, Thomas. I wanted it.”

“What do you mean?”

Thomas gasps at Alexander, who is on his knees in a second, unsteady as his chest still spasms and lungs refuse to cooperate. Alexander’s face is completely red, and even as he wheezes, Alexander’s mouth is open and ready and so _willing_ , and Thomas ignores the immediate urge to disrobe and fuck into the wet heat of his Advisor’s mouth. Alexander is completely still, moving only his eyes so as to fix his gaze expectantly on Thomas as he gets nearer. Still, Thomas is looking upon him with an enviable level of warmth, and Alexander curses himself for ever having fallen for the performance.

Thomas strokes a thumb along Alexander’s jawline, marvelling – half in wonder and half in disgust – at the way Alexander leans into the touch, purring.

Alexander reaches for Thomas’s waistband, movements smooth and practiced as skilful hands quickly undo Thomas’s fly. It’s a wonder how Alexander completes the action with only one functional wrist, and a spasming rib cage. Whilst the prospect was tempting just moments ago, Thomas’s stomach turns at the thought of how much _training_ Alexander would have had to endure for these actions to become automatic. How many times Washington would have beaten the commands into his Treasury Secretary, forced himself onto a pleading Alexander… until Alexander began wilfully offering himself up to the assault. He wonders if Laurens had taken advantage of Alexander’s same _willingness_ last night, or if Alexander had even imagined that he had a choice in the matter.

It’s hard to be aroused when the image of Washington raping Alexander is imprinting itself on the inside of his eyelids. He thinks back to his confrontations with Washington, the few times he had had the guts to stand up for himself, wishing he had only done _something_ to protect Alexander. Even if Thomas knows that _something_ would only have amounted to charges of treason. He knows it’s no use ruminating on the past, but it doesn’t stop him. He can do something now.

“No, Alexander.” Thomas says firmly, batting away Alexander’s hands. “Get up.”

Alexander scrambles to his feet, in a number of movements far less precise.

“H-have I done s-something wrong, Sir?” The words fly from his mouth, now more fearful than sultry. There are tears in his eyes and Washington’s voice re-re-replaying in his head overwhelms him.

“No, Laurens attacked you. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.” Thomas’s tone is soothing, even as he seethes beneath the surface.

“Th-Thomas. You don’t understand… Laurens didn’t hurt me. I-I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

“You cheated..?” Thomas’s footsteps are rhythmic in the silence, “On me, on James?”

Alexander is resigned, almost breathless, in his confirmation, “Yes, Sir.”

“You’re fired.”

“What? I get that you’re upset, but I did nothing to warrant tha--”

{“Other than offer yourself to me?”} Thomas asks, never stopping in his pacing. It had become habitual, to slip into the French language when they were alone, when neither of them would have to combat accusations of being a Francophile. {“Like didn’t do the same for Laurens and god knows who else… Your crocodile tears won’t get you out of this one.”}

{“Thomas, please,”} Alexander shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly, {“You have to—“}

{“Have to? I don't have to do a damn thing, Hamilton.”} Thomas snarled, encroaching on more and more Alexander’s personal space until his Advisor is pressed against the wall. Thomas gestures wildly, but his voice is barely above a whisper as he says the words, {“If you haven't realised I'm the fucking President of the United States! I don't need to take orders from a… a...”}

For some reason, French isn’t particularly comforting anymore. Alexander registers Thomas’s words immediately, and somehow the insults hurt less than Thomas calling him _Hamilton_. At least the insults were true. But the coldness of his name leaving Thomas’s lips stabs him in the heart.

Thomas presses his forearm to Hamilton’s neck, and his body works faster than his brain, buzzing with unspent anger. {“Not even your beautiful mouth can smooth this over.”} He swings his fist back, throwing his weight behind it as he aims for Hamilton’s face. When Hamilton doesn’t even attempt to defend himself, Thomas lets his fist collide with the wall. He huffs, shoving Hamilton. It’s not satisfying if they don’t put up a fight, and it’s not a fight if they don’t defend themselves.

“Get out, Hamilton.” Thomas commands, “I don’t want to see you again.”

 

Thomas’s hand rises to massage the bridge of his nose, a migraine brewing behind his eyes. He can feel the room closing in on him, and Thomas knows in his heart, that if Hamilton doesn’t get out of his sight very soon, he will do something he regrets. Alexander tries to explain himself, failing miserably as the panic sets in again. Thomas doesn’t want him anymore. There’s no ring on his finger, no legal protection against Thomas’s mercurial favour, and he serves at the pleasure of the President.

He remembers the pain of serving the pleasures of a president. Washington had dragged him along, granted him wealth, prestige, and a place to call home, so long as Alexander was available to wet his dick and warm his bed. Thomas had convinced Alexander that he was more than that, that it was Alexander’s brain, his knowledge, his ambitious ideas, and his literary finesse that had deemed him _worthy_ of his Treasury Secretary post, and absolutely invaluable at Jefferson’s side as Special Advisor.

It had all been a delusion, and Thomas had to see that now. Had to see that Alexander was just an animate blow-up doll, perfect for a quickie in a bathroom stall or the backseat of a car, but nowhere polished enough to be taken out in public. Especially not Thomas, with the respectable husband by his side, for all the world to see.

Right now, Thomas couldn’t even deign to look at him, face contorted in disgust and anger, as Alexander imagined his name being struck from the record of Jefferson’s good books. Not even his _willing_ mouth could get him back into the President’s favour. Washington had been right.

No one wants the immigrant, bastard, whore.

“But, Thom—“

“I said,” Thomas roared, “GET OUT!”

Alexander flees the room, moving so fast that his coat billows like a cape behind him.


	6. "Thomas"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has consequences.  
> Some are far-reaching, even more than can be fathomed.

 

 _“C’_ mon. _” Thomas whispers harshly. His voice is gravelly, the words are forced through his teeth, evidence of his patience wearing thin. “Open up for me.”_

_“Mmm-mm!” Alexander shakes his head, clenching his teeth so hard, he can feel his pulse in his tongue. Two strong hands, one clamped over each ear, force his head forwards. Alexander screws his eyes shut, as Thomas forces himself against Alex’s lips._

_“Alexander.” And then Washington is standing behind Alexander, gun in his hand resting against Alexander’s shoulder, cold metal almost caressing his neck. “Be a good boy, and do as you’re told.”_

_And again there’s a hand in his hair, grip so tight Alexander can feel a patch leave his scalp. There’s a ghost of wetness as he screams, a sound cut short by the cock shoved down his throat_.

* * *

 

 _Your mind is playing tricks on you,_ Eliza would probably say, _it’s a side effect of the trauma. Be patient with yourself._

“Major-General!” Laurens sings, eyes bright as he claps Alexander solidly on the back.

Alexander jolts forwards, snapping back to reality. He doesn’t reciprocate Lauren’s enthusiasm. With his dull eyes remaining glued to the empty space in front of him, he waves away the greeting shortly, barely leaving any time for Laurens to register the acknowledgement of his presence.

“Cat got your tongue?” Laurens perches on the edge of the desk, leaning back into Alexander’s field of vision. When Laurens catches Alexander’s expression, he sobers quickly, his jovial tone quickly turning to concern. “You okay?”

“I, uh, don’t think we should be seen together.”

Laurens pauses, crossing his arms. “Do you regret it or something?”

“No, it’s not that.” Alexander tugs sharply on his sleeve, concealing the wince as he does so. “I’m just not interested in sleeping with you again.” He wishes he could elaborate without letting himself fall into the trap of imagining he could ever be happy at any distance away from Capitol Hill and the Presidency. Still, he shouldn't be on the grounds. Working himself to exhaustion never once returned him to Washington's good graces, and probably wouldn't do anything for President Jefferson either. Being caught with Laurens would no doubt have his access revoked, depending on whether Thomas was feeling particularly vindictive in that moment. The one thing that Alexander knows will fix things, is  _correction_. Thomas hadn't quite finished the job, but if Alex could get into the maintenance closets in the barracks... he has no doubt that he can finish what Thomas started. That Thomas will be proud of him, for fixing his own mistakes.

“Oh, th-that’s cool.” Laurens nods understandingly. He flattens his palm against Alexander’s hair, running his fingers gently through the locks in just the way he knows Alexander likes. Alexander leans into the touch, letting his head loll back. Alexander hadn’t realized just how close Laurens was, with lips too pink, casting a spell on him. In another life, if not for Lafayette, if not for James, then maybe…

“L-Laurens, I-I know you like me, but… the job--”

“You mean Jefferson and James.” Laurens’s voice is silky, calm even in his accusation. He watches as Alexander surrenders to his touch, leaning up slightly, lips parted just so.

Alexander remembers Thomas running hands through his hair like that, whilst Alex grinds down into his lap, or shares a lingering stolen touch, or lie beside each other as the evening sun set behind lace curtains. Alexander clutches his chest as the guilt of his infidelity stabs at him.

“Don’t.” Alexander chokes out, reaching behind him to halt Laurens’ movements. There isn’t enough time to hide from Lauren’s ever-perceptive eyes.

“Fuck.” Laurens curses, eyeing the injury, as Alexander’s sleeve rolls up. “You get your hand stuck in a fucking meat grinder?” Purple and blue forms a thick band around the joint, tracing the outline of veins on Alexander’s hand. The joint appears aligned, but Laurens had seen a lot of deceptive fractures in combat, seen how adrenaline could mask even the most excruciating pain.

“You were a little rough,” And that excuse is weak, but Alexander didn’t count on anyone seeing it. At least, not anyone with the authority or audacity to question him about it.

“Don’t lie to me. I pinned you, yeah, but if I’d done that to you, not only would you have screamed,” Laurens says slowly, “the other one would match.” Laurens stares pointedly at Alexander’s other wrist, pristine and unmarred.

“I punched the bag wrong.”

“Bullshit, you have combat training.”

“Just leave it, John, please.”

“No, if someone hurts - is hurting - you, we have to put a stop to it.” John’s hands are out of Alex’s hair, now carding nervously through his own. “Look, I have this friend who c--”

“You’re not my boyfriend, okay, so just back off, alright?”

“Because I’m not your boyfriend means I can’t care about you..?” Laurens huffed. “What are you scared of?”

“Being known as nothing more than a whore.”

“What?” Laurens snaps around in shock, “I--”

Alexander cuts him off, “I jumped into bed with you, didn’t I? Well actually, onto a table, but that is beside the point. There are 130 bedrooms in the White House and I couldn't walk the fifty yards to any one of them. No, I’m such an _insatiable slut_ , I let you take me on the fucking dining table.”  
  
Laurens recoils, remembering his words, “I’m sorry if I made you feel cheap, but I--”

“But what? I’m just Washington’s whore, right?”

“It wasn't… like that." Laurens reaches for Alexander's hand, and tries not to be hurt when Alex snatches it away. "I actually like you, and I thought we could be... something.”

“You wanted a piece of the President’s pet?”

“What?” Laurens’ tone sharpens. “No! I never served directly under--”

“Like it matters! The whole country saw what he did to me! It was on the front page!” Alexander is out of his chair now, yelling with some unknown fervour.

Laurens hesitates before continuing, more to the room than Alexander, “I-I don’t understand what that has to do with...”

“Then don’t worry about it.” Alexander smiles shortly, an unnatural action as he forces his lips upwards. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, John.” He says softly, pressing a soft kiss to Laurens’ cheek before practically fleeing the room.

He doesn’t get that far. Laurens stalls him by grabbing a fistful of collar, dragging Alexander backwards abruptly. Alexander sputters, taken aback by the sudden loss of momentum, reachimg behind him to unhook himself from whatever he is caught on. Confusion strikes him, however, when what he touches is not a hook or door handle, but the warm flesh of John Laurens’s hand.

“Tell me who did that to you, and I’ll let you go.”

It is a repeat of earlier. And Alexander won’t make the same mistake. “Thomas,” Alexander mutters softly. “He was so fucking angry.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Laurens narrows his eyes, When Alexander doesn’t answer, Laurens fills in the blanks for himself. Alexander is a practicing lawyer, dating a Supreme Court judge.  _Oh shit._ It's not technically impropriety, but boy has Laurens fucked up. If Conway ever found out about his rendezvous with Alexander, the next time he went against procedure, even if it was as simple as forgetting to tick a box... Alexander's rich, high-powered boyfriend would find a way to lock him up.  
“Seriously? Y-you're dating Thomas Conway?” 

If Conway could do _that_ to his boyfriend, who is Laurens? He would get 20-to-life for _jaywalking_.

“Shit.” Laurens says, releasing Alex immediately, holding his palms out in a placating gesture. “I would have never… if I had known you were dating, y'know, had a... I wouldn’t have flirted, wouldn’t have…. I’m sorry. **Really** sorry.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked it (or even if you didn't!)  
> It sustains me.


	7. Resolute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens seeks justice for Hamilton. It doesn't end well.

 

  
“I know you’re busy, Sir.”

Thomas looks up to see Lieutenant Colonel Laurens in the doorway, and tries not to visualise Alexander moaning needily beneath him. Thomas hates himself for thinking that; for wishing that Laurens had pinned Alexander down, had ignored his screams, had bitten his neck bloody; instead of what it was – Alexander deciding to express his sexual desires with someone other than Thomas or James. Did it make Thomas a bad person?

 “Sir?”

 “Yes, Laurens, come in. Close the door behind you.” Thomas smiles sweetly, dropping his pen to usher Laurens into the room. He stands, extending his palm for Laurens to shake. “You want a drink?” Thomas asks, opening a cupboard and gesturing to the decanter and glasses it revealed.

 Laurens shakes his head, “I thought the White House was a sober zone..?” he says, retracting his hand and sitting down. For Thomas’s last term, the White House had been a sober work environment, with not a drop of alcohol being allowed on the compound. Thomas had been lauded for the initiative, even by his opponents who had snidely commented about the Jefferson Administration finally getting some actual work done. The American public wouldn’t be too forgiving to find out that pious President Jefferson was a liar.

 “I won’t tell if you don’t,” Thomas laughs, pushing a tumbler in Laurens’ direction.

 Laurens held up a hand in acknowledgment, shaking his head no. It didn’t matter that the president’s private and public personas didn’t match. There was serious business to deal with, and it is sometimes in the public interest for them to be in the dark about some things. Thomas nods, replacing the tumbler on the silver tray, and closing the cabinet doors.

 “Right,” Thomas says, clapping his hands together as he takes a seat opposite Laurens, “You have my full attention. To what do I owe the pleasure? You’re not supposed to be on duty.”

 “It’s about Special Advisor, Alexander Hamilton.”

 “Ah, yes. You two are awfully _close_.” Thomas nods, monitoring his tone. He struggles to keep it calm and level, to not betray how close he truly is to Alexander. “What about him?”

 “Have you seen his wrist? He needs medical attention.” Laurens keeps his cards close to his chest, not wanting to break confidence, “I’m not sure if it’s a sprain or a fracture, but he’s acting differently.”

 “Differently?” Thomas raises the glass to his lips and sips slowly.

 “Spooked.” the officer commented. How Thomas Conway has Alexander in such a state makes his blood boil. After some careful thought, Laurens adds: “He was never like that before. During the war, h--”

 “The war was a long time ago, and both of you ought to put it behind you.”

 Laurens is immediately on guard, unnerved by Thomas’s flippant attitude in regard to the event which had not only formed their country, but guided his ascension to power. Thomas seems to have caught on to Laurens’ unease, as he immediately changes his tune.

 “What I mean, is that he probably just matured in his politics. I suppose he’s not as impulsive as before.”

 “Right.” Laurens didn’t seem convinced, “Anyway, have you seen him? Did you know that he's dating Conway? I'm worried about conflict of interest.”

 

“No; he’s been scarce around the Oval recently.” Thomas lies, “As for dating, I try not to pry into my employees’ lives, but as far as I know, he’s married to the job.”

   
Laurens’ eyebrows draw inward as he poses the question, “Why are you lying?”  
  
“Excuse me?”

 “I said you’re lying.” Laurens doubles down, palms flat against the Oval Office desk as he leans into the President’s face. “Do you have something to do with it?”

 “ _It?_ Are you accusing me of something, Laurens?” Thomas’s voice is low and deadly, sharp enough to rival the swords of the wartime battalions.

 “No, Sir. I’m merely asking a question.” Laurens scans Thomas’s face, dissatisfied with what he finds. He can’t put his finger on it, but something is… off. “The last two men who occupied this Office left a rotten legacy. Did you wish to follow the trend?”

 “Thank you for your extended service, Lieutenant Colonel.” Thomas seethes, baring his teeth as he stands to full height, looking down at Laurens. “But you’re fired. Effective immediately.”

 Laurens flies from the table, as though it shocked him, standing unnaturally upright. “What?”

 “And because your sleeping with Alexander violated the Secret Service Policy on fraternization and inter-departmental relationships, I can revoke your pension.”

 “I-I didn’t.” There is no way the President would know that unless… Laurens can’t speak for anyone but himself, but he doesn’t make a habit of telling his boss about his sexual escapades, so why would Alexander? “You can’t yank my pension! I fought in this country’s war, while you were off getting high with the French!”  Laurens clenches his teeth. He had preferred working under Thomas, but at least Burr had seen combat. Presumably, either Alexander told Thomas, or someone saw them and told Thomas. But neither of those presumptions make sense. Unless Thomas and Alexander were otherwise connected, them sleeping together wasn’t need-to-know information -- not even for the President.  

 

Thomas ignores the implication of the statement, safe in the knowledge that Laurens doesn’t know exactly how right he is. “You should leave before your colleagues catch wind of any more of the  sordid circumstances surrounding your departure.”

 “That is… this is an abuse of your power.” Laurens hears the blood rushing in his ears as he connects the dots.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, _Alex meant this Thomas._

 “No, it isn’t.” Thomas smiles, “it’s perfectly _within_ the parameters of my power. You slept with my Special Advisor, and you shouldn’t have.”

 And there it is, the same possessive glint Laurens had seen in his father’s eyes a million times, always before the leather of a belt left bloody welts on his back. The same one he thought he had imagined in Washington’s eyes before every skirmish.  His mind drifts briefly to Charles Lee’s statement of facts. The first time Laurens had read the entire testimony, he’d thought it was bullshit -- a web of lies spun just to tank Jefferson’s chance at re-election. Until tonight, when he saw the fear in Alexander’s eyes. It’s a stretch, but isn’t too far-fetched to be true.

 “I bet he’s special in more ways than one. That’s why you asked me to exclude him from daily security checks...” Laurens says, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “Did you make him sleep with you? Did you rape him?”

 

Thomas’s blood runs cold. “I am not Washington. I am not a rapist. I would never--” Thomas stiffens, every muscle tense in anger even as he attempted to diffuse the situation. “Y’know, you ought to watch your mouth before I get some of your colleagues to escort your bloodied body out of here. I’ve had infinite patience with your gibberish this evening.”

 “In that case,” Laurens has nothing more to lose. He bites the bullet and levels the accusation at the President of the United States, “how many times did you use this office to cheat on your husband, Thomas? The same husband I took a fucking bullet for!”

 “How dare you!” Thomas lunges across the desk, grabbing at Laurens’ lapels and dragging him into a position that left the lieutenant colonel arching over the desk the separated them.

 “You looking to add physical assault to your repertoire?” Laurens challenges. “It’s only a couple months until Election Day. And I’ll have evidence. Don’t make this worse for yourself.”

 “No one would believe you anyway; your father was a reprehensible man, and so are you.” Thomas spits out.

 

It is another problem altogether, but it had never been so apparent. So long as Laurens put others before himself -- put _Thomas, and the Presidency_ before himself.  
If James ever objected to Laurens’ placement on his personal security detail, Thomas would have reassigned him immediately. James, though, ever the forgiving sort, pleaded with Thomas to give the eager John Laurens a chance.

Thomas didn’t often admit it, not to James -- not out loud, anyway -- that James was far smarter than him, and perfect in ways Thomas just wasn’t. James’s ability to put aside Laurens’ background paid off in the end, perhaps even saving his life. It’s not as though Laurens’ heritage was a secret, but it wasn’t often spoken about, except by those in-the-know, and even then the relevant occasions to discuss such a thing became less and less frequent as time went on.

Laurens was honourable, truth-seeking, and determined, almost to a fault. And without a war to fight, he was left combatting whispers of his father’s legacy, just never loud enough to arouse any suspicion of undue or familial association.

 

Laurens scoffs at the insult to his heritage. He wasn’t going to defend his father from truth. Even when his father’s military and financial blunders were thrown in Laurens’ face during the war and the decades after, Laurens hadn’t defended his father. Why would he do so now? The man was long dead, and the scars on Laurens’ back had long faded.

Some news stations were still airing segments of the Madison-Mercer allegations as part of their election coverage, but Laurens had ignored the whispers and kept his head down, fulfilled his oath and defended his country. And this was the show of gratitude from the man whose husband’s life, Laurens had saved?

The puckered scar, in the shape of a bullet, hot and piercing, between his shoulder blades was an example of the dedication he had to his job, his loyalty to the Office of President of United States, and his personal sacrifice made in safeguarding the First Gentleman. Laurens believed that James would have no reason to lie, so there was no love lost in regards to his father. The man had been a general of almost unparalleled strategy and intelligence, and Laurens knew better than most of all,  how well his father kept secrets. How well his father could hurt someone else. He may never have been sexually abused, but it had never been a happy household. As soon as he enlisted, Laurens had taken his mother’s maiden name, and the barbs of the Mercer name had lost some of their sting. Until the First Gentleman’s disclosure a few weeks ago.

With Lauren’s promotion, he had grown in prominence, and so had the distance between he and James. In a way, Laurens had mourned the bond they had shared in their four years together. Every now and then, when James wasn’t at a charity event, fundraiser or electoral caucus, and Laurens could pull himself away from the Burr Campaign, they would sit for coffee and catch up. Once, the press had caught them, with White House Correspondents puzzled on how to report the incident. Laurens remembered it clear as day; James had flashed a dazzling smile and spoken on the values of civility and bipartisanship. And the press had eaten it up.

 

How James had married such a vile, impersonable,  and power-hungry man, Laurens would never know.

 

“Like you haven’t done far worse. Just like you stripped Washington’s name from every building, I will ensure that men like you have no legacy.” Laurens shook himself out of the President’s grip, glaring daggers all the while. “You didn’t even fight in the War, you’re just using Washington’s words to stymie my career. So what else did you inherit from the Revolutionary _Hero?_ ” Laurens swiped a smooth palm down his jacket.

 Every muscle in Thomas’s body remained taut, ready to knock Lauren’s teeth out if he fancied it. “I’ll destroy you. You’ll never find work on this **continent** when I’m through with you.”

 Laurens made sure Thomas could see his hand on the holster before saying: “You can’t intimidate me, Thomas.”

 Thomas took two steps back before stretching his arms out to his sides and puffing his chest out, “Go on, if you’re gonna fucking shoot me, then have at it. See how far it gets you.”

  
Thomas laughed derisively, and he began counting, his tone childish and mocking. Laurens didn’t move, just continued to stare intensely at the President. When Thomas reached twenty, he let his hands drop to his sides with an exaggerated clap.

 He plonked himself into his plush swivel chair and sighed, reaching for the phone. “Y’know what? Because you’ve been of such valued service, I won’t even nullify your credentials. You can keep your medal during your new _civilian_ activities, Mister Laurens _._ ”

 “It’s **Lieutenant Colonel**.” Laurens asserted. “I served in three different wars under two different presidents. I earned my rank. Unlike you, Mister President.”

 

Laurens clamped his mouth shut, unclipped his ID badge from his belt, and slipped it into his back pocket. Laurens then stepped forward and clenched his fists behind his back, staying silent, face again impassive as he stood at-ease. He wouldn’t give the President the satisfaction of knowing that he had succeeded in getting under Laurens’ skin. What he also wouldn’t do, was shoot the President between the eyes, just to wipe that smug look off his face and sneering tone from his voice. The President spoke as though almost three decades of service meant nothing, that Laurens’ termination was an act of favour for an old friend.

 

“In fact,” Thomas continued jovially, ignoring Laurens’ interjection entirely, “Let me get Sally to escort you.”

 “It’s fine,” Laurens hissed, “I know my way out.”

 “One more thing, Mister Laurens,” Thomas smiled as Laurens turned to face him again, but this time his face bore no warmth, and his voice was icy. “If you ever threaten me like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

 

 


	8. Severance

_James froze, his brain short-circuiting as he realized he was alone with Professor Mercer again. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this -- how had he let this happen? -- but it wasn’t until the door had clicked shut and the bolt had clunked into place that he realized that the honourable professor hadn’t vacated the room along with the other students. Mercer crossed the room, almost in an instant, eager strides closing the gap between him and fresh prey._

_“Sir…” Madison’s voice was tense, the word pulled taut like a violin string across his vocal cords. James’s hands, splayed protectively over his History textbook, were icy cold and unfeeling, frozen like his thought process._

_“Mister Madison.” Mercer didn’t move from his position leaning over Madison’s desk. He enjoyed it, could smell the fear oozing from his student’s pores, a nervous sweat that caused Madison to gleam slightly under the long fluorescent lights. Mercer smiled as he let his fingers creep their way up his student’s thigh; his eyes didn’t leave James, noting the exact moment when James lost his nerve in the tortured silence of the classroom._

_“N-not t-today.” James stammered, jumping out of his chair. One hand tightened on his bag strap, the other clutched his textbook tightly to his chest._

_“You belong to me. You’re mine, do you understand that?” Mercer tilted his head to the side, the smile on his face vanishing as his expression hardened._

_James noticed the change in his professor’s expression immediately. “Plea--.” But it was already too late._

_Mercer’s hand tightened in James’s hair as he dragged the young Madison across the classroom and up against the wall.“I don’t know why you always insist on making this hard for yourself.”_

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you okay?” Laurens asked shuffling into the room.

“John!” James jumped a little, clutching his chest, startled by the officer's presence. Thank fuck it wasn’t Mercer. Well, it wasn’t _Hugh_ Mercer. The man is dead, James reminded himself, and John Laurens is not his father’s son. James put down the book he was reading, having by now lost his page, and turned his attention to Laurens. “Yes, good evening.You finishing your rounds?”

“Y-yes, Sir.” John affirmed, hoping his voice conveyed something resembling truth, and contained more authority than he felt.

“Well, it’s good to see you as always. Don’t let me keep you.” James smiled warmly, raising the book to his chest and fixing his unseeing eyes on the page containing the tenets of Smith’s proto-theory of Trade Liberalization. He had read that same sentence sixteen times, and it still didn’t make sense. Not with the phantom sensation of Mercer’s hands choking him, dangling the illusion of choice in front of him. Forcing him to submit to the scrape of sharp teeth against his neck, or have the bruising of his throat coax darkness into swallowing him.

“James,” Laurens shifted his weight, the squeaking of floorboards underfoot the only other sound in the room, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” James shrugged, feigning nonchalance that he absolutely did not feel. He stuck his bookmark between the pages and set the book aside, pretended not to see every similarity that existed between the late General Hugh Mercer and his son, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens. The freckles spread across Laurens’ face were lighter, but otherwise completely identical to Mercer’s. James refused to acknowledge how such integrity was spawned from such a nefarious commander. James leaned forward on the plush sofa, and extended an invitation for Laurens to sit. “What is it?”

“It’s about my father.” Laurens laughed, a nervous sound bubbling from his throat. “The riding crop. I want to know if he ever t--”

“I can’t.” James said firmly, “I’m sorry.”

“But, Sir--”

“I said **no**.” James said, his lips a straight line. “Please do not take after your father.”

“I’m sorry.” Laurens bowed his head for a moment, then stood at-ease. “I’m on your side, Sir.”

“Why? He’s your father.”

“Exactly, I know he’s capable of.” Laurens said solemnly. He met James’s gaze, and shared with the First Gentleman, a certain moment, that if ever he was asked of it, he could not describe. “May I ask a different question?”

James nodded silently, then opened his mouth as though he had suddenly gained the ability to speak, “Yes, of course.”

“Do you trust me, James?”

The response is instant. “With my life.”

“Do you ever think that, maybe, the Lee accusations are true?” Laurens, no sooner than he’s said it, felt the pang of regret. The expression on James’s face left Laurens’ tongue icy and frozen, in the otherwise parched heat of his mouth. “Forgive me, Sir, I would not dare--”

“You’ve said enough, Mercer.” James cleared his throat, the look of hurt on John’s face told him the damage had already been done. “Laurens.” James corrected himself anyway, “You’re dismissed.”

“James, wait. You need to know that I won’t be on your escort detail tomorrow. I took a peek at the itinerary, and you aren’t on that plane to Ohio.”

“What do you mean? Who is?”

“Hemmings, President Jefferson, Alexander, the cabin crew, Director Reynolds, and formerly, me.”

“Formerly?”

“I accused your husband of breaking Alex’s wrist.”

“Ah! You shouldn’t have done that.” James wrings his hands, “To answer your earlier question. In confidence, I believe there is some semblance of truth to Lee’s story. There’s no way to really know, but…”

“Yeah?”

“But! I do not think my husband would hurt anyone, in that way, for any reason.”

“I know what you mean.” The first gentleman had recovered quickly, but Laurens had seen the hesitation in his words; had seen in Thomas the same thing Laurens had, the capacity for violence beneath the diplomatic mask.

“To be fair, he’s doing better now than when he was Vice President.”

"More to do, I suppose. You should get him to bed before he gets too drunk in there.” John chuckled reluctantly, running a hand through his hair, “I would do it, but I’m no longer employed by the Jefferson Administration.”

James tries not to pounce on Laurens’ statement. Laurens isn’t stupid, and questioning Thomas’s drinking habits would only raise eyebrows. James tilts his head sympathetically. “You resigned? Why?”

“He fired me.” John admits, “Jefferson fired me… for sleeping with Alexander. And, uh…” John shifts from foot to foot, fiddling with his uniform. This is the first time James has ever seen Laurens look unsure of himself. “I know it’s not my place, but I think Jefferson is having an affair. I can’t say for sure! But…”

“But you’re going to proclaim it anyway.”

“I can assure you that not a word of this will leave the room.” Laurens shrugs, “Your husband may be a dick, but I value your privacy. And because I do, you’re getting an advanced copy.” Laurens grabs James’s wrist, and presses a thumb drive into the open palm.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” James toys with the drive between his fingers, wishing he could see its contents.

“Listen to it.” Laurens says, “Mulligan’ll release it on primetime after Thomas’s speech."

"How bad is it?"

Laurens doesn't answer, just shakes his head and says, "That’ll give you enough time to get away from it all.”

“Thank you.” James nods, extending his hand for John to shake. When John accepts the offer, James lays his other hand over John’s wrist. “I’ll personally organise your severance package.” There's no way Thomas would be able to think without anger clouding his judgement when it came to Laurens. James was always more politically-minded, even if he did prefer to stay in the shadows. He knows it is not wise to make an enemy of someone who knows you so intimately.

“Hmm?”

“My husband can be a bit of a dick.”


	9. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I started drinking after I was assaulted.”  
> Confronted with James’s confused expression, Aaron attempted to clarify. “Thomas raped me."

 

“I want you to be my running mate.” Aaron smiles in a genuine show of warmth.

“He’s my _husband_ , Aaron.”

“VP’s gotta be a step up from First Gentleman.”

“My Approval ratings will tank.”

“They’ll be worse if the people find out the truth.” Aaron volunteers, "Freefall if you go down with the ship."

“I don’t know what you're talking about, but…” James didn’t move. “I can’t do that to him.”

“You’ve been fighting. Which means that you know, better _than_ anyone, that it’s better _for everyone_ if he loses.” Aaron shrugs, leaning forward to press his weight on spread palms.

“You’re guessing.”

“You wouldn’t be here under ordinary circumstances. You're the faithful one. Lemme guess, he started drinking again?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” James knows better than to be goaded into selling Thomas out. He’s been the first gentleman for long enough to know how to disguise how he’s feeling.

“I was there for one of his numerous stints in rehab.”

James plays dumb, “I don’t understand.”

“I started drinking after I was assaulted.” Confronted with James’s confused expression, Aaron attempts to clarify. “Thomas raped me.”

"You are so full of  _shit_."

"I can prove it. Not Washington's involvement, but... Thomas had to prove he'd done it, and cut out a chunk of my hair. It's why I shaved my head. Washington left me a note afterwards, said I was _prettier_ that way." Aaron shudders. "As a survivor, you should kno--"

“My husband is not--”

Aaron holds up a hand to quieten the first gentleman. “It wasn’t his fault, and I’ve forgiven him, okay? I'm not going to use it against him. Washington made him do it.”

“When?”

“What?”

“When were you assaulted?”

“Right before he became Secretary of State. Before I knew he was Washington's..." Aaron's eyes glaze over with a faraway look, "Washington made it Jefferson’s initiation, so to speak.”

“You would have been, what, twenty?”

Aaron nods, "Though... you don't look surprised."

"Because I know you'll do anything for power, Aaron." James clenches his teeth, remembering his own assault. "But I must say this is a low blow, even for you. Lying about..."

Aaron shakes his head, “I know you don’t believe me, but I can prove it.” Aaron pulls a drawer out and removes an old business card; he flips it over in his hand and quickly scrawls on the back. He slides it across the table to James. “Here, go to that address and state your name; they’ll give you Thomas’s medical files.”

"I'm his spouse, I wouldn't need it." James folds his arms. "It would prove nothing about _rape_ , Burr."

"I know, but..." Aaron swipes his palms over his scalp, biting into his bottom lip. He leans into James, gripping James' lapels desperately, "You know. You know what it's like to be scared, James. You know what silence can do to you, even when you heal. Thomas hasn't dealt with it. With any of it. He will fly off the handle eventually. And it will be bad. You've never seen him drunk, high, and raging. You've never felt that fucking cane on your back. He isn't someone who can be trusted with that much power. He might not be Washington, but he is cut from the same cloth." Aaron steps away from James, gulping down a sob, "I don't know how he hid it from you for so long -- his jealous and hateful side -- but I swear to you, James... you can't let him win."

"You want the presidency that bad?" James asks, reaching out to accept the proffered business card.

“I want to make sure men like Washington, like your husband, do not go unchallenged."

"You're a true believer, huh?" James tilts his head to the side, examining the business card held between his index and middle fingers. "Why do I give them my name?"

“While I'm sure he held good favour with many, Washington never had the adoration of those below him; he had dirt on them. If Thomas ever went to the press, it would be your name that was raked through the mud.”

“He didn’t know me yet.” James covers his mouth as it dawns on him. Alexander had asked the question before, but this was the first time James would give it serious thought. How many people were victimized by Washington? "He had no reason to protect me. I was his enemy's  _fiancé,_  for god's sake."

“Maybe he had a soft spot for Virginians. It doesn't matter, anyway. Thomas didn’t want collateral damage. You learn to survive with the least casualties.” Aaron laughs, but only to himself. “Y’know, as far as is possible. Washington isolated us all. W-we were powerless compared to him." He raises up his shirt to expose his lower back to James.

James' eyes widen, and he can't help but reach toward Burr. “C-can I..?”

Aaron makes a noise of affirmation. James peers at the strange keloid scarring, confined to the left side. It’s swollen and uneven, but James can still decipher three points of contact that line up, like Burr says, with Thomas's cane. James doesn't want to believe it, but the specifics are too convenient. His fingers brush gently against the raised skin, causing Burr to flinch violently.

“How hard did he hit you?” It’s not entirely rhetorical, but James is still surprised when he gets an answer.

“Hard enough to bleed. Enough to satisfy Washington." Aaron tugs his shirt down quickly before spinning to face the First Gentleman. His face is void of emotion when he next speaks. "There's a reason none of us have many friends.”

James smiles sadly. It's lonely at the top. James isn’t sure what he wants to ask.

“I only scarred so bad because I’m allergic to cherry.” Aaron offers anyway. He shrugs, his voice almost playful, “Unfortunate time to find out, huh?”

“Theo. Does Theodosia know? I don’t want to accidentally… say something… untoward.”

“N-not about Thomas or the assault. I told her that it’s a battle wound. She knows everything else: rehab, Washington, Lee, everything.”

“Lee?” James furrows his brow, "Did Thom--?"

“I don't know. Maybe. It doesn’t matter." Aaron waves his hand as though it settles the matter, "Thomas is a great man. But you’re a good one. I'm running a clean campaign, James. I'm serious about a Burr-Madison ticket.” Aaron says, though the remnants of unshed tears are still visible in the light.

James wants to protest, want to stress that he's a _Jefferson_ , that he has been for years, but for some reason, he can't form the words. He turns his wedding ring around his finger nervously. It doesn't feel like a fight he'll win. 

Aaron Burr claps and beams at James, as though it will make up for any offence he may have caused. It's almost as though doing so erases his previous displays of vulnerability with his usual professional, almost-impassive attitude. That he can ignore the revelations, the elephant in the room.  
“Pierre will get you anything you like." He says, gesturing to a butler. "Please, think about my offer!” The Vice President is already halfway down the hall before James retrieves his tongue.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck were you thinking?” The words shoot out from James’s mouth faster than a bullet as he bursts into the Oval Office. James's body is almost vibrating with rage as he yells at Thomas’s chair. “When were you going to tell me? Did you not think I deserved to know?”

James had ruminated on Burr's words for hours, had looked for truth, had looked for deceit. Had paced around the master bedroom until his legs, head, entire body hurt. Had paced until he couldn't ignore the heavy weight of Burr's words. Until the idea threatened to crush him.

“What are you going on about now?” Thomas has seen his husband angry before; it is rarely actionable. He stares out into the skyline, dreaming of simpler days. 

“You raped Burr.” Those are the words that catch the president’s attention. 

 

Thomas swivels his chair the one hundred and eighty degrees it takes to face the first gentleman. He doesn't hide the evidence, doesn't feign innocence, doesn't tuck the bottle away. “Have some respect for your commander in chief.”

“Have some respect for our fucking marriage.” James swipes the bottle away from where it leans on the desk, and does everything in his power not to bring it down on Thomas's head. “You couldn't give me a courtesy call? Too busy drowning yourself in scotch to tell m--”

“Shut up.” Thomas laces his fingers together, leaning forward.

"Deny it."

Thomas huffs, reaching for his cane. “You had the opportunity to tell me about Alexander, and you covered for him instead.”

“It was the first time in a week that I'd seen you sleep. Forgive me for worrying about your health.”

“That's an excuse.” Thomas stands, blinking rapidly. “I know you've been trying to get the presidency out from under me.”

“What?” James furrows his brow, “that's insane.” The bottle lands on the table with a thunk, allowing James to demonstrate just how insane he thinks Thomas is being.

“All buddy-buddy with Laurens, feeding information to Burr… You think I wouldn't find out?”

“The presidency has corrupted everyone, and you think I want that?”

“Why did you meet with Burr?” Thomas asks. James can see the rage in Thomas’s body, the way the President taps his foot like there are ants in his shoe.

“I need to be amicable because all you do is pick fights.”

“It’s more than that. Did he ask you to betray me?”

“If I was conspiring against you, I wouldn’t have put it on my calendar, would I?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Thomas takes a swig from the bottle, and there’s no denying it now. “Why do you want to see my downfall?”

“The presidency…” James is silent a moment, not yet ready to articulate the details of his meeting with Burr. "It’s practically a curse; I've seen what it's done to you, Thomas!”

“It’s made me powerful!”

“It’s made you paranoid!”

 

Thomas lunges for James. The First Gentleman squeaks, caught off guard by the sudden and surprisingly coordinated movement, finding himself pinned between Thomas and the desk. “You're making me lose in the polls.”

James wrinkles his nose, attempting not to inhale the dense, scotch-soaked air that accompanied Thomas's accusation. “Me? You're here in the middle of the day, you stink of booze, and you haven't signed a new bill in 100 days. You're making geopolitical misstep after misstep, and--”

“And one of them was marrying you.” Thomas snarls, “I should have never touched you; anyone who would marry a bastard whore has to have some secrets himself. Tell me: when's the last time you dragged a razor 'cross your wrists just feel like you were worth something?”

“Y-you…” James shakes his head. James wishes he didn’t feel Mercer in Thomas's touch and didn't smell Mercer in his husband's cologne. “Jesus, I can't do this anymore.”

Thomas chuckles, releasing James, “you were always weak.”

“I was always _patient_ , Thomas.” James corrects him, “I didn’t care about the rumours, the drinking, not even the cheating. I could have dealt with that, smiled and shook hands like the dutiful first gentleman I was supposed to be… but I can't deal with having married a... I want a divorce. ”

Thomas’s laughter suddenly falls silent as he turns away.  
James can only hear the ticking clock in the corner of the room.

“Do you hear me?” James repeats, “I want a divorce.”

“I heard you, I just don't know what makes you think you can tell me what to do.”

“I'm going to my lawyers in the morning.”

“No, you're not.”

 

James doesn't see Thomas's hand, only sees the glint of the glass before it collides with his face. It shatters on contact, shards scattering across the carpet just in time to break James's fall. James lands hard, too shocked to cushion the blow. His palms sting, tiny flecks of glass penetrating the thin skin.

“You don't get to divorce me. Do you understand that? I'm the president and you're mine.”

James feels the room getting smaller and smaller, robbing him of vital oxygen. James clamps a hand over his forehead, the gash quickly gushing blood over his eyebrow and into his left eye.

Thomas’s lips are a straight line as he picks up the telephone receiver on his desk. “Secure line, please. The first gentleman has been injured. Yes. No need for a hospital. Uh-huh, send Sally. Thank you.” He slams the receiver down and rounds the table, standing over James menacingly.

James doesn’t move from his position, too shocked to speak. How had he been so blind to miss it? The relapse, the anger, the abuse… or had he been so selfish that he ignored it, so long as Alex was the target?

Thomas crouches beside his husband, voice a raspy whisper. “I love you, but if you disrespect me like that again, I will deal with you accordingly. Do you understand that, my love?”

James nods silently.

“Good.”

Washington had always driven the point home. The man may have been evil, had been everything Thomas despised, but for all other pursuits, he was a stellar president. Thomas had to stop fighting it, and just be who he really was. He swings a leg over James’s torso, hearing the man grunt below him as his ribcage is compressed under Thomas’s weight. Blood is flowing down one half of James’s face, soaking into the Oval Office carpet beneath. Thomas remembers bleeding into that same carpet, and knows what must be done to secure his power. He inhales sharply, steeling his nerves in a way that the liquor just couldn’t. Then, he settles his palms over James’s neck and applies pressure. The first gentleman thankfully doesn’t struggle, too woozy from the blood loss to put up a decent fight.

By the time Sally arrives, James is still.

“Are you drunk?” Sally scans the room, taking in a panting President Jefferson, sprawled out to the left of the first gentleman. His bloodied fingers are wrapped tightly around the almost-empty bottle in his hands. James is supine, the blood from his head wound creating a macabre halo around his skull. “What the _fuck_ did you do?”

“I need you to take care of it.” the slur in Thomas’s words is more evident than any expression of remorse.

“Take care of it? I-is he dead?”

“Don't act like you've never seen a corpse before Sally. Check for yourself.” Sally tears her eyes away from the President, rushing to James's side. She reaches out to touch two fingers to his neck, breathing a heavy sigh as her fingers rise and fall in time with a steady heartbeat.

“Jesus Christ.” Relief washing over her, “You could have killed him.”

“But I didn't.” Thomas responds, though his voice wavers with an emotion that Sally cannot name for sure. “I want him held at Camp David.”

“He's the First Gentleman; people will ask where h--”

“That's an order from your commander.”

“Yes, Sir.” Sally nods solemnly, “Until when?”

“Until I'm fucking dead.”

 


	10. Air Force One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why Thomas doesn't drink.

 

They hadn’t been at each other’s throats like this in an eternity, gnashing teeth and sharp words designed to wound, to cut deeper than either of them ever had been. Air Force One provided the perfect environment.

“You fired him?!” Alexander yelled, storming into the kitchen. ”What the fuck? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Please, Alexander. It’s too early for this. Shut up.” Thomas didn’t turn around, head buried in the freezer.

“No! You fired the guy that took a bullet for you!”

“He flouted protocol.” Thomas said, breathing in the cold air.

“That’s an excuse!” Alexander yelled, looking over his shoulder as a scared chef scurried away from the scene. Alexander made an effort to lower his voice before continuing, “You’re lucky James didn’t react like this when **you** cheated.”

“Oh, should I have slit my wrists instead?” Thomas spun around slowly, until he was facing Alexander, “Or should I fired you, too? It takes two to tango.” Thomas stopped short at that, burying his head back in the freezer as he cursed himself, remembered Washington’s voice saying the same thing to him.

“For fuck’s sake…” Alexander folded his arms, taking in the entire scene. Thomas’s movements were sluggish, weighed down by an unknown force more powerful than simple jetlag. “Does James know you fired his bodyguard?”

“No, wait,” Thomas looked up as though the aeroplane held the answers, “I **did** fire you.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Alexander. “You shouldn’t have made **my husband** cover for your whoring around.” Thomas spun around – way too fast – enough to run into the still open freezer door.

“Where is he?”

“James?” Thomas slurred, leaning his forehead against the smooth metal of the refrigerator, gripping the handles tightly to abate the pounding in his head. “Or your new boyfriend?”

“Thomas.” Alexander hissed the name as he realized the full extent of the situation. “Why isn’t James on this plane?”

This is why Alex loved James, maybe even more than he needed Thomas. James was compassionate, compromising, understanding, in the places where Alexander was impulsive, and Thomas violent. Where Alexander would find someone to hurt him, to make him feel small and out of control, in the familiar state of subordination, Thomas would reel towards the diametrically opposed scenario. He hated being out of control, feeling helpless. It was familiar for all the wrong reasons, and experiencing that emotion, or seeing Alexander in that submissive headspace made him want to punish those who filled the role, even if it made him like Washington, the man he despised. Even if the guilt drove him crazy, even if his level head became tilted with the irrationality of old vices. It scared him, how some broken part of him found solace in hurting someone. Even if it was only himself.

“Camp David,” Thomas says slowly, wiping his brow, “he fell ill unexpectedly.”

“Did you send him away so he wouldn’t see you drunk as a fish?”

“I’m not drunk. I’m hangover **.** ” Thomas laughed. “Fuck. Hungover.” he corrected.  He grips the fridge’s door handle as the plane bounces into unexpected turbulence. “Anyway. We’re done here.”

“You have an event _tomorrow morning!”_ Alex stresses, “Laurens is supposed to coordinating this! You’re supposed to be sober!”

Thomas shrugs, “If you want Laurens back so bad, I’m sure there are things you’re willing to do to get back in my favour...” Thomas gestures over to the closed cabin door of his private quarters.

“I know you aren’t serious. I’m not your fucking whore, Thomas!” Alexander cuffed his fists, exhaling harshly when his wrist protested the movement. “You don’t get to ruin other people’s lives because you can’t control your emotions.”

“Right, like you wouldn’t bend over for every cock in the White House if the President commanded you…” Thomas taunted, “Like you can’t wait to get on your knees for a little taste of power?”

Alexander set his jaw, advancing on Thomas. He pinned Thomas against the wall, using his combat training to twist Thomas’s right arm between his back and the refrigerator. “You will not talk to me that way.”

“One little session with Schuyler, and you’ve already forgotten your place.” Thomas stated as though still completely in control of the situation. “I can do as I please, Alexander. I’m the President.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” Alexander breathed, “I've taken down a president before, and I can promise that removing you will be easier.”

“You really think you mean something, huh?”

“I know where the bodies are buried.” Alexander retorts, “I can still ruin you.”

Thomas laughed, the smell of stale scotch emanating from him. “I’d like to see you try.”

That was the only prompting Alexander needed. He drew his fist back, and with all the force he could muster, slammed it into Thomas’s ribs. Thomas pitched forwards with a grunt, but was forced upright by a shove to the shoulder. Alexander repeated his action, aiming again for the ribcage. He screamed, wrist close to snapping with the force.

Thomas coughed forcefully, but took the punch without resistance. “Are you finished, Alexander?”

Alexander drew his fist back as it shook, wanting to aim again, even as his spirit wavered. He wanted Thomas to feel, but he also, in some way, wanted to punish himself for his part in Laurens’ dismissal.

“Yes,” Alexander fumed, stepping back. He cradled his wrist, presenting a brave facade, even as the swollen limb throbbed with every heartbeat. With anger still set in his jaw, he hissed the title that the ashes of his own career had bestowed upon Thomas. “Mister President.”

“Good. When we land, you’ll be... briefed,” Thomas groaned. He hunched over, trying to catch his breath as he clutched the side that would no doubt quickly bloom into a giant, ugly bruise. James would question its origins, but Thomas knew he could probably come up with a convincing lie by then. Thomas bit his lip.

“Where’s James, really?”

“I have never lied to you, and I won’t start now. The First Gentleman is at Camp David, something you needn’t concern yourself with.” Thomas sticks to his story, “You’re covering for Laurens tomorrow morning. On protection detail uptown.”

“I-I don’t think that’s…” Alexander shook his head, “I can’t do it with my wrist.” It didn’t matter what Alexander was commanded to do that morning, his wrist would not cooperate. He probably wouldn’t be able to shoot straight, or even conduct perimeter pat-downs without constant pain.

Still, Thomas had to see Alex make penance. Couldn’t explain his emotional wound, the raw hurt he felt at Alexander’s infidelity. Eliza would recommend talking it out, but the President couldn’t waver; he had to show his love for Alexander by channelling his hurt in a constructive manner. This pain would be constructive. Laurens and James were gone, and this was what was best for Alexander. If Alexander was forced to stay at Thomas’s side, he couldn’t get himself into trouble.  
And that was exactly what Thomas would tell himself to justify it.

Thomas straightened out, again as presidential as ever. “You will do what your President commands of you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done, y'all!


	11. Swing State

 

“Look at me,” Alexander demands, palms spread against Thomas’s chest.

Thomas had spent many days and nights imagining this very scenario. In his dreams, it usually ended in a dark corner of a club, with lips pressed against Alex’s neck,  a mischievous hand down each other’s pants, and Alex’s moans transforming ordinary club music into a symphony. In this reality, though, his headache may as well be splitting his skull open with the vindictive pounding heartbeat of a hangover. It’s hard to imagine anything else when all he wants is to have a shot and crawl into bed.

“Did you have anything to drink this morning?”

“I fucking wish.” Thomas cradles his head in his hands, “I’m up to…” Thomas counts on his fingers, “seven aspirin right now.”

“I think that’s too much.” Alex shakes his head, “Not even hair of the dog?”

“No,”

“You call James?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think our marriage is ove--”

“You're being ridiculous!”

 

“Jefferson.”

Their hushed tones are interrupted by a woman, prim and proper, a woman whose ire Alexander has never had the misfortune to experience, “You’re _needed_.” Her tone is insistent and all-too-knowing, as though she has stripped the facade away, and revealed the true nature of the relationship between Special Advisor and President with just a glance. She scans Alexander’s face, and Alex fights the urge to flinch. “I’m sure Agent Hamilton has some important work to do..?”

Hamilton nods, relieved at the cue to depart. “Director Reynolds.” he bows his head in reverence, “President Jefferson.” before speeding off to anywhere that put a lot of distance between him and the director of the FBI. He shivers. It’s always a couple of degrees chillier when she’s around. Even so, Alexander lets his curiosity get the better of him, watching the two converse in short, sharp sentences. Director Reynolds says something that causes Thomas’s leg to twitch, the same way it does when he aches for his cane. Thomas replies with something that earns him a pen jabbed into his chest, and a storm named Maria click-clacks away.

 

“What was that about?”

Thomas smirks, “They got Charles Lee to drop the charges.”

“What Lee was accusing you of…” Alexander folds his arms. “I never asked, _did_ you do it?”

Thomas straightens his tie. “Does it matter?” he scoffs, striding off with Secret Service personnel in tow.  

 

President Jefferson, escorted by parallel rows of Secret Service agents, waltzes into the main auditorium to a vociferous applause, but still not the standing ovation Vice President Aaron Burr receives. Things are looking bad for Thomas, and at this point in time, Alexander can’t bring himself to give a shit. If he spends one more second worrying about the Jefferson Campaign -- which was never in his job description -- he would go a little haywire. He watches his unit charge forwards, as he takes a more passive supervisory role, lagging back to watch late patrons be patted down and guided through metal detectors.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Alexander rolls his eyes as the static from his earpiece all but pierces his eardrum, berating the technology before an urgent voice comes through on the other end.

“You need to leave.”

“W-what?” Alexander holds his earpiece in, “Laurens, is that you?”

“It’s not safe and you need to leave.”

 

It’s all a blur. One second, Thomas is on the stage drumming up support for his platform, so close to election day, the next, Laurens is yelling something, and then a muzzle flash. The scent of it – blood, sweat, gunpowder – and the overwhelming panic in the hall tells Alexander that once again, the country is at war. He sees tanned skin and revolver. And his instincts kick in. His hands are still, even as his heart pounds. His aim is steady and he doesn’t hesitate to fulfil his sworn duty.

The recoil forces his wrist upwards, and Alexander hears the bone shatter. The shockwaves race up his arm, forcing the gun from his hands. He drops the gun with a scream, lamenting more about how the action is against gun-handling protocol, rather than the pain in his wrist. He focuses on his oath, retrieving the weapon and flooring the assailant with a perfect precision.

It’s still too late. The gunshots ring out, two Alexander counts at first, before being followed by scores of others. Dust rises from the floor as terrified civilians trample over each other to escape the hurricane of bullets. Alexander can see VP Burr across the hall, being corralled into a sea of Secret Service personnel, all black suits and sunglasses. Assured of the Vice President’s safety, Alexander relaxes, as much as a man can relax in the midst of a Presidential Assassination attempt. Alexander can’t hear anything apart from a high-pitched buzzing, and his ear is on fire. His head spins, hands trembling as he brings his fingers to his ear. The wetness smudges across his fingers and as his hands float towards his face, Alexander knows it’s blood.

He shakes his head; there are more important things than ordinary deafness. He had promised James, sworn on his mother’s life, made an oath to the State, that he would lay down his life in his service to the President. Now, his body is moving forward without his knowledge, striding towards the stage. There’s blood everywhere, a huge pool shared by the two men lying lifeless. Alexander had only seen blood like that under Washington’s corpse.

He is methodical in his process. Coming across the first unresponsive body, he draws his foot back and kicks the revolver aside. Alexander keeps his aim at Laurens’ head, bending down to press his fingers to tanned skin. The man’s skin is clammy, but there is a weak pulse beneath Alexander’s fingers. Even though Laurens is still alive, Alexander wants to fall to his knees, to mourn an old friend. A life in Federal Prison is the best deal he’ll probably get, and that’s if Thomas lives.

“I did what…" Laurens shifts awkwardly, lifting his hands to apply pressure on the holes in his torso, "had to be done.”

“Don’t say anything without a lawyer, John.”

There must be a good reason, Alexander thinks, but he curses Laurens’ reckless behaviour. He can understand it, to an extent, what aloneness feels like, what desperation can coax the body into doing. When Alex raises his head to signify to his fellow officers, there’s a hoarse gurgle from the other body.

 

Thomas is lying still, bleeding into tile, and Alexander knows he is to blame.

 

“We need an ambulance here! P-President Jefferson was hit!” Alexander shouts, or maybe he doesn’t. His lips move, but he can’t hear himself. It’s redundant anyway; the room is in chaos and there are agents securing the perimeter. There’s no doubt someone is on the way to help. Holstering his weapon, he bolts over to Thomas’s side, palms patting down firmly at Thomas’s neck, shoulders, torso, drifting down, checking for the source of the bleeding. “One between the ribs and one in hip!”  

Thomas’s lips are moving, but Alex can’t make out the words.

“I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you!”

Thomas nods, hands reaching desperately to grasp at Alex’s collar, and drags Alex to down to whisper in his ear. This close, Alex can finally hear the struggle in Thomas’s words. Hears how he swallows painfully before speaking.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Alexander.” Thomas knows he is babbling, and hopes Alexander knows what he means. The president wheezes as his lungs labour in an attempt to take in air, “ James and…” Thomas sucks in a breath, unable to finish his sentence. He wishes he could just stand and embrace Alexander, go back to a time before he let his anger get the better of him.

“No, Thomas.” Alex presses down firmly on the bullet wound in Thomas’s side, feeling his wrist slip and buckle under the pressure. It makes a _crunch_ , a solid sound at what Alexander is sure is a wholly unnatural angle. If he could hear himself, he would know the howl he allowed to leave his lungs as his eyes watered with reflexive tears. The pace of Alexander’s breathing picks up, as he attempts to ignore the white hot flashes of agony racing up his entire arm. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy. Still, he continues steady pressure, eliciting a pained groan from the president.

 

“Are you listening to me? I won’t let you die here… Not in a suit as ugly as that.”

 

Thomas laughs but it’s breathy and otherwise silent. Thomas’s lungs spasm, preventing him from saying anything snarky in response. He closes his eyes tightly as the pain radiates through him, thinking back to just last night. He’s a man of many regrets, yes, but if he died here, this would be one of his biggest. Thomas searches for Alexander’s hand, as though the movement would comfort him. The pain in his wrist must have been killing him. Thomas chuckles internally at that. Here he was, President of the United States, dying on a tiled floor, and he couldn’t even think the right final words.

Alexander, in his peripheral vision, can see Laurens being dragged out of the room, with the agents holding less regard for his humanity, than a farmhand would regard a sack of potatoes. He turns to see the paramedics eager to work on the President. He just needs to make way for them, but Thomas is gripping his hand so tightly, and as much as Alexander wants to stay by his side, he knows he can’t.

“C’mon, you gotta let me go.” Alexander unwinds Thomas’s fingers from where they were intertwined with his, working methodically to ensure Thomas’s safety before his own. His wrist flares along with his movements, and Alexander tries not to cry, seeing Thomas so helpless. “They’re going to take care of you. I’ll call James, and we’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“I don’t wan…” Thomas’s last words are smothered by the oxygen mask placed on his face as he’s loaded on the gurney. Alexander hopes Thomas’s last words aren’t, in some ironic twist of fate, _I don’t want to die._

 

His eyes follow the gurney’s path out of the auditorium. Alexander tries not to jump when a strong arm yanks him aside. The man looks concerned, in that impassive, serious way that only Secret Service Personnel are capable of. The buzzing in Alexander’s body dies down as the adrenaline in his bloodstream subsides. And _fuck_ does his wrist hurt.

“Mr Hamilton,” the man says, “you need to see a doctor.” His voice is soft, both familiar and foreign, lightly accented. If Alexander had to guess, he would suggest Irish… though it just as easily could have been Ohioan for all he knew.

“N-no,” Hamilton waves away the man’s concern, his training taking over. He wouldn’t know how to cope without it. “The President is our primary concern.”

“If you refuse to come of your own accord, I will force you to receive medical attention.”

 

Alexander scowls at that. For the first time, he turns to look at the man so intent on ordering him to the hospital. Alexander’s jaw drops as he lays eyes upon the spitting image of James Madison, from sole to crown. The only difference between this man and James, is the way this man carries himself. Unlike James, this man still has a determined, passionate, almost naive glint in his eyes; one that Alexander hadn’t seen in decades. It makes his heart skip a beat, in a good way. He’s short but strong, and if he didn’t stand so flat-footed, Alexander could have mistaken him for a plainclothes agent.

“If you’re a civilian, you should be behind the barricade,” Alexander gestures to the perimeter set up behind audience seating. He immediately regrets it; gasping as he cradles his wrist.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” The man replies, silently noting Alexander’s injuries, “Let me offer you some free advice:”

“I don’t need any advice.” Alexander continues to examine the man, relying on his recon training to reveal any more clues on how this not-James knows him. James doesn’t have any siblings, so it’s not as though this not-James is an old almost-brother-in-law.

“C’mon, Xander.” The man chuckles softly, almost to himself. “Don’t martyr yourself for a President that wouldn’t hesitate to break you apart to save himself.”

Alexander perks up, wary of the use of that name. _Xander_ , no one has called him that since…

“What’s your level of clearance? Who are you?” Alexander tilts his head to the side, leaning towards the man in an attempt to listen with his good ear.

“I’m a friend.” The man says simply.

Alexander is on the offensive, gesturing silently to his squadmates on the left. “And what did you say your name was?”

“Hercules.” The man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “and I’ll be watching.”

Agent Hemmings sprints forward, and is by Alexander’s side in a second.

“Right,” Alexander looks skeptical, even as a shudder runs down his spine, “Sally, take my friend Hercules here beyond the barricade, if you please.”

“Xander, I’m serious.” Hercules smirks, an expression strangely incongruent with the situation.

Sally, with a personable smile, grabs Hercules by the bicep in a way that leaves no room for argument, and begins to lead him to the area cordoned off by agents. Hamilton wishes in that moment, that he had the ability to read lips.

Hercules turns to address his escort, “Make sure Advisor Hamilton gets to a hospital. He’s deaf in at least one ear.”

Alexander makes a mental note to check the guest list out front. Of course, it would be part of the regular investigative procedures, but there is something familiar about this knowing stranger that Alexander can’t shake.

 


	12. Persona Non Grata

Alexander’s eyelids flutter as he stumbles through the door. He doesn’t have a mirror, but by the expression on James’s face, he probably looks like a walking travesty. Then again, James looks worse, bright white stitches are at home above his left brow, and Alexander can’t help but wonder what put them there. James touches him softly, almost in disbelief of the reality, before bringing him into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander whispers hoarsely. “I sh-should have been quicker.”

James murmurs something into Alexander’s neck, and Alex finds comfort in the way James’s lips dance across his skin. Alexander is still for a long time, head swimming in the comedown of heady adrenaline. He sinks into the embrace, shaking as he brings one good hand, and heavily plastered arm up to hold James tightly. James’s lips are moving again, and Alexander wishes he could hear whatever sweet words James would use to make everything better.

James loosens his hold on Alexander, staring him square in the face. Alexander leans to the side, letting his good ear catch what his partner is thinking aloud.

“Thank fuck you’re okay.”

But Alexander’s not okay, he’s exhausted. Alexander doesn’t know what to say to James’s statement, but knows he just wants to shower, and get to sleep before whatever painkillers are in his system wear off. He hasn’t been this exhausted with procedure in a long time, but this isn’t his fight. The investigation is out of his hands, and Thomas is in surgery until further notice, with a team of specialists brought in to repair the damage two bullets tearing through a man could cause.

“He called me.” Alexander says, though he’s sure that it’s not exactly what James was looking for.  
“Thomas?”  
“Laurens. And then I shot him.”  
“You…?”  
James had been informed that two people had been shot this morning, and thank god Alexander is standing in front of him, alive and in the flesh. James bites into his bottom lip, hoping that that fact had no bearing on Thomas’s condition. Stitches be damned, he’d been with Thomas almost a decade. James couldn’t lie, he had wished for Thomas’s death ever since he woke up in the Maryland retreat of Camp David, but he hadn’t thought it would come true.

“He shot at the President,” Alexander says, voice hollow. It doesn’t sound as though he’s entirely sure of the words he’s saying. They filter out through the slurred speech of Alex’s heavy tongue.  
“He..? Where? Is Thomas..?” James swallows the words. He doesn’t want to think the worst. “Nobody will tell me what’s going on. Is Burr alive?”  
“Uh-huh, in sssurgery. There, uh, was a guy who looked just like you, Hercules… something.”  
“The journalist?”

Alexander nods slowly, "I need a meeting, can you make that happen? Can you make a meeting happen? I need one. A meeting with Herculessss Something."

Alexander pitches forward, unsteady on his feet, “jeez. These pills are gonna mess with my aim.” He says it as though there weren’t more prominent injuries affecting said aim. The broken wrist, heavy with plaster and titanium screws finds purchase in the crook of James’s elbow, thankful that it was mere dizziness and not a gunshot wound that would bring him crashing down.

James manages to catch him before he can fall to the floor. “Easy, easy.”

Alexander is no longer thankful. He wants nothing more than to stand but his limbs are moving of their own accord. The ground won’t stop rocking, and Alexander demands the earth tell him when he ended up on a boat. The floor is a rough sea of tile, and Alex at the mercy of the waves tossed back and forth above the white foam. Alexander doesn’t know he’s overboard until he’s drowning, crashing onto the tile floor, enveloped in a hostile environment, one that seeks only to have him perish.

“Alex!” James rushes to his side, movements worried and frantic. James stares down at Alexander, who is flat on his back, seemingly unaware of what was happening around him. “What’s the—shit, you’re bleeding.”

A wave of nausea prevents Alexander from checking if James is right, and with his limbs a persona non grata in the territory of his body, Alexander can only turn his head before the contents of his stomach joins the rumbling sea of tile. He registers James floating somewhere above him, lifeline in hand, and the trickling in of male and female voices. Hears the words _bleeding_ and _hospital_ and _Hamilton_ and nothing more, when the wave he is riding turns to blackness and swallows him up.


	13. Run

“I’m guessing they didn’t let you in either?” Alexander asks. “I’m not listed as next of kin.”

The question isn’t anything James doesn’t already know the answer to. If _they_ had let him in, he’d be at the hospital right now - at his husband’s bedside. And Alexander knows that. He’s just making conversation. James lifts the glass to his lips, gulping down the secret stash. Alexander almost doesn’t believe James is really sitting in front of him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I figured you’d want to see a familiar face.”

“He sent me here; the administration is not on our side, Alex.” James says gravely, “it’s on Thomas’s.”

“I never believed _we_ were on the same side!”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Alex clenches his jaw, relaxing only when his head starts to pound, “He broke my wrist, and fired Laurens. He’s been involved in constitutional violation of freedom of the press, and perhaps voter suppression. He has been neglecting his duties, and we’ve been enabling him.”

James clears his throat, now saddled with more than worry. “How is Thomas doing?”

“Well,” Alex’s voice is shaky, too distracted by the niggling pain in his wrist. “Sally said he’s in a coma.” Alex’s voice follows his wandering gaze, bouncing off the walls with a greyish tint of guilt. “Unfortunately, Laurens is the one who signed off on your security clearance, so, officially, you’re... _‘involved’_.”

James is silent for a long time, listening to the ticking clock on the nightstand. The action calms him a little, the monotony, the knowledge that nothing has changed. On the contrary, everything has changed. The Secret Service are investigating him -- under the table, thank god, his reputation can’t take another hit -- for his so-called involvement with the Presidential Assassination Attempt. It looked bad, but if Laurens lived, it would all be cleared up in a second. Although, neither James nor Alexander reckons Laurens would be particularly eager at being given the chance to cooperate.

 

“Didn’t peg you as a day drinker.”

James scoffs, raising the glass to his lips. “No time like the present, I suppose.”

Alexander laughs humorlessly, “Mind if I join you?”

“By all means.” James gestures to the chair opposite him. He offers the bottle to Alexander, saying, “I found it in his desk. I can’t believe he thought he could hide it from me.”

Alex clears his throat, “The morning of, he was hungover. I should have told you he relapsed, I should have told you I knew, I—”

James huffs, “You say that like I didn’t.”

“It’s my fault, and I’m sorry.” Alex says quietly, “I should have been quicker on the draw.”

“He shouldn’t have hurt you.” James says, something dark brewing beneath his words. James opens his mouth again, but quickly swallows whatever further explanation Alex had expected, along with the scotch resting on the ottoman.

Alex shakes his head, “If I hadn’t been such a s—“

“If the next word out of your mouth is “ _slut_ ”, I will shove this bottle down your throat, I swear to god.”

“Okay,” Alexander has been around James long enough to know that the now-First Gentleman won’t hurt him. Still, Alexander holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” James swirls the scotch around his mouth, savouring the warm liquid bathing his tongue, long numb and tingly, letting the buried feeling dance in the back of his throat. “Y-you know,” He pauses, still unsure of whether he should say what he’s really thinking, “I always wonder w-what… if only W-Washington hadn’t…”

 

Alexander flinches, mind racing to the worst-case scenario immediately.

_Images of George Washington, tall and unwavering as ever, blue and tan tricorn hat cocked just so, strong hand in James’s hair, gripping tight. There’s a smirk on Washington’s face, one with which Alexander is too well acquainted, and he can predict what comes after. Alexander’s blood curdles and he shudders when he sees the wide red stripe appear under James’s collarbone, the soft light and bloody brown skin reflecting off the surface of the knife in Washington’s hand. James screams, head thrown back with the help of a sharp yank from Washington’s fist in his hair. The blood forms a puddle that turns into the pool beneath Thomas, lying helpless as Washington taunts him, gun in hand._

 

“It’s…” Alexander flinches, remembering his own encounters with Washington’s decorative daggers.  “I’m sorry.” Alex says quietly.

“Can you stop apologizing? You said that already.” James snaps, gulping down another glass. He can finally see the appeal, what had coaxed Thomas into his life of alcoholism. What had caused Thomas’s life to almost slip away in that auditorium. James grits his teeth, inhaling deeply. “I sometimes wonder w-what… we could have been.”

Alexander’s eyes sink to the golden ring perfectly eclipsing James’s finger as James’s words float around the room. “W-what do you mean, exactly? _What we could’ve been_?”

“I—“ James’s lips hesitate, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “I think you know what I mean.”

Alexander is acutely aware of what James means, and he suddenly wishes they hadn’t indulged in White House contraband and commiseration. Alexander looks up at James’s face, contemplative and pensive. James’s eyes are fixed on the glass cradled in his hands, no doubt warming slightly from the contact. His lips are a straight line, pressed together remorsefully and fully cognizant of the emotions that he should not be feeling.

Alexander digs his fingers into the armrests restlessly. “I want to hear you say it.”

“If Washington hadn’t… hurt you. What it would be like to… for _us_ to… if you were wearing… if _we_ had gotten married, instead of me marrying... Thomas.” James tenses, pressing into the glass between his palms. “And I know I shouldn’t be so selfish as to think that, not when Thomas is fighting for his life right now. Don’t misunderstand me, I love him; and my god, you saved his life, but…”

Alexander’s jaw is on the floor, not having predicted James’s confession quite as accurately as he’d thought. The room is silent as common sense kicks in for James, giving Alexander time to compose himself. It’s not like he hadn’t entertained the same thought over the years, when his eyes would settle on the immaculate wedding band of either man for just a second too long, his envious longing betrayed by the ever-wistful expression on his face.

“When did you…?” Alexander pauses, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I…” James shrugs, easing out of the chair. “Alexander, I don’t feel anything. I know I should -- I mean, he’s my husband.” James stumbles a little before righting himself, twisting his ring nervously about his finger. “Thomas could die, and any other time, I swear I’d be sobbing, inconsolable,  but I’m almost…”

Alexander stands as well, certain that even with painkillers in his system, he’s far more sober than James is. Alexander places a reassuring hand on the small of James’s back, steadying his movements. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

James bobs his head, as though marking the beat of a silent song, the only acknowledgement of Alexander’s words. “I’m relieved. I feel… free.”

“Free?” is not the word Alexander was expecting at all. “Are you unhappy, James?”

“I love you, Alex.” James answers. He swings forward a little, finding purchase on the couch cushion and preventing what could have been a catastrophic fall. “I never… stopped loving you.”

“I know,” Alex says softly. His free arm, covered in plaster, is heavy but his heart is heavier, weighed down by years of separation and unspoken words. “But that’s not what I asked.”

 

James shuffles forwards, in the vague direction of the kitchen, “You know how Jefferson is.” James says the words casually, but the Virginian twang that creeps behind every word contradicts his effort of an impassive delivery. There’s something about the accent’s reappearance that plants a sense of unease in Alexander. That, and the professional implications of the name _Jefferson_ leaving the First Gentleman’s mouth… Alexander wonders if perhaps, for all his perceptive nature, he had still missed the gradual deterioration of the marital bond.

James had worked tirelessly to rid himself of that Southern twang, the thing that introduced itself before any statement, that had without his consent placed him to be judged. Alexander remembers shelling out for the elocution classes when James was desperate - more so than even the _immigrant bastard -_ \- to fit in with the New York high society. They had the honour, the glory, the appearance, the money… just not the speech patterns.

“Did he ever hurt you?” Or is it solely Alexander’s privilege to bear the ache of the President’s fingertips, nails, teeth, digging into the sides of his neck? Surely, James had seen the similarities between the current President, and his predecessors.

 

As the grip around it loosens absent-mindedly, the crystal glass in James’s hand tumbles to the ground, and James almost tumbles after it, if not for the exhausted Alexander straining to grasp the First Gentleman upright against his hip. The scotch soaks into the cream-coloured carpet, and Alexander knows it’ll stain.

“N-not until… last week?” The accent lurks behind James’s words in an ironic twist of fate. Alexander had always found the accent comforting, a reminder that although they were of _very_ different backgrounds, both considered alien to Albany, they had a foreignness that was unique to them, that allowed them to fit together like nothing else could. Until Thomas Jefferson had come along. Brazen and dashing and arrogant, clothed in eye-wateringly bright magenta, Thomas Jefferson had been a diplomat of an overwhelmingly superior caliber. Alexander may have fought in a war, but there’s was no way he could compete in that arena, not with Jefferson’s outfits always fresh off a French runway. It seemed juvenile at the time, but those details were the planting of red flags, and indicative of larger problems.

 

“Is that why you’re here? He said you were ill.”

“Fading in and out of consciousness because of a head wound counts as _ill_.” James laughs, but it’s humourless. “I asked for a divorce, and he split my head open.”

“You’re scared.” It isn’t a question. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“I thought he was going to kill me, Alex. H-how could I not see the signs?”

Alexander wants to yell about all the nights Thomas bit down hard into his neck, like he wanted to see Alex squirm; gripped too tight, like he wanted Alex to bruise; crushed Alexander’s windpipe in his palms, as though seeing Alex beg for air turned him on. That James had seen the signs, and ignored them. And if he hadn’t, then he didn’t want to. Because as much as James appeared to be humble, as much as he stayed out of the limelight, perhaps he was as power-hungry as Thomas was.

 

“Has he done it before?” Alexander asks, and it’s hard not to feel the phantom ache of his broken joint.

“He came close a few times before.”

“Came close?” Alexander asks, trailing behind James just a step and a half as he guides the First Gentleman into the kitchen. Alexander sits James down at the island, watching as James immediately slumps over to rest his head on the cool surface. Alexander’s hands linger on the small of James’s back just a second longer, eyes still fixed on the glint of the golden ring.

“I was supposed to get on a flight to California tomorrow. Alone.” James says, words entirely smothered by his lips against the marble. Alexander pours a glass of water, wondering what the statement has to do with his question.

“Here,” he says, nudging James with the back of his plastered hand. James raises his head, snatches the glass from Alexander’s hand and greedily gulps down the contents.

“I begged him to let me go with you, but he seemed intent on punishing me for your... infidelity, so he had the ever-loyal Sally the lapdog dump me here.” James sways a bit before steadying himself on the stool, “Before we were married, he had broken his hand punching the wall. Took two days for a contractor to re-plaster all the holes.”

“Why was he so mad?”

“Remember when all the papers were talking about how you’d be president after Washington? It was the day after your appointment to the cabinet. Thomas assumed I was working against him, y’know, because we were…”

“Yeah.”

 

“I wished he was dead,” James notes Alexander’s expression of shock, “in the abstract sense. I didn't grow up with violence, y'know. My parents almost never fought, my family lived comfortably, I was afforded many privileges. I just happened to fall for Thomas. Someone people would literally die for." James shakes his head, "Before then, Thomas never lay a hand on me." James scoffs, “Until he cracked my head open and wrapped his hands round my throat. Laurens is a terrible shot.”

“He..?”

“I thought he was going to _kill me_ , Alex.”

“And what were your last thoughts?” Alex picks up the glass and rests it in the sink. “When you thought you were going to die..?” Alexander knows the feeling too well.

“Run.”

“You know I’ve felt like that every second of my fucking life?” The venom is Alexander’s voice, surprises even him; James can’t help but turn. “When my father left, when my mother died, during the hurricane… During the war, that was desertion; during Washington, that was treason; during our engagement, even now… there’s that voice that tells me all of _this_ ,” Alexander gestures around to the opulence that he never once felt at home in, his connection to riches too tenuous, too reliant on good favour of powerful men, “can fall apart in an instant.”

“Whatever you’re going to do, don’t.”

“It’s already done. I put in my resignation last night. I leave in two days.”

“Wh-where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.” Alexander softens as he approaches James, laying a hand to cradle James’s face. It shifts upwards, running gently under the stitches in James’s forehead. “Was it a bottle?” Alex asks, scrutinizing the stitching.

“Our wedding crystal.”

“I got you that.”

“Mhmm.”

Alexander knows that _mhmm;_ when James’s thoughts are flying around his head and he isn’t sure how to articulate them. Alexander takes advantage of the comfortable silence.

“I want him to pardon Laurens.”

“Thomas does that, and he’ll lose the election.”

“He’ll lose anyway.” Alexander says, “I’ve seen the numbers. Charles Lee… the damage is already done.”

“What happened to General Lee was tragic; no one should die in such a horrific manner. That being said, I won’t unnecessarily jeopardize his chances of winning.”

“Does any of it matter anymore? Do you still even care?” Alexander leans in slowly, brushing lips against James’s cheek. He stretches up to whisper in James’s ear, “Maybe it’s better if he loses.”

“You sound like…” James bats Alex’s hand away, shoving him back against the cabinets. “did Burr get to you? What did he promise you?”

“Nothing, but I’d rather Thomas didn’t have the entire weight of the Justice Department behind him when he eventually fucking kills you.”

“He didn’t kill Lee.” James says, but Alexander can hear how James attempts to convince himself. “It was a freak accident.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“My husband does not take pleasure in hurting people.”

“I…” Alexander isn’t going to argue with a drunk man. “Would you like to see his speech? How easy it was for him to beat you unconscious, then speak about family values, all for a couple of votes?”

“Ohio is not _a couple of votes.”_

“Less than New York; less than Florida.”

“It’s a swing state!”

“Jesus H. Christ! Thomas smashed a glass into your head!” Alexander is fuming, “And then he whisked you away as damage control. This is your chance.” Alexander says, his voice suddenly devoid of anger. “Either you leave with me, right now, or… I’m scared that the next time I see you, it will be at your funeral.”

James makes eye contact with Alexander. Watches carefully as he sees the tears spring forward in the corners of Alex’s eyes.

“Please, James. Please.” Alexander holds his hand out for James to take. “Come with me. Because I can’t stay here and watch you die.”

James stands on shaky limbs, bumbling round the island to hold Alexander in his arms. He squeezes Alexander so tightly that both of them are scared to breathe, scared that the other will shatter.

“I love you, Alexander Hamilton. And I will always love you.” James cradles Alexander’s face, watching the tears flow down Alex’s cheeks as he shakes his head.

“N-no, please, James. Listen to me... No…”

“Can I kiss you?”

Alex nods, which prompts fresh tears to spring from his eyes.

“I can’t leave.” James silences Alex’s protests, pressing a bruising kiss to Alex’s lips. James presses into Alex as he does so, needy hands sliding under Alexander’s blazer. His hands spread out against the softness of Alex’s shirt, fingers curling to softly dig into Alex’s ribs, pulling him even closer. “I love you. Be safe, okay?”

 

Alexander is breathless when he next speaks, but he means the words all the same.

“Whatever you’re staying for, I hope it’s worth it.”

 


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long for anyone to patch themselves up. They live with their scars, and thank their lucky stars they're still alive.

 

“Vice President Jefferson!” Alexander greets his ex-fiance with a smile, even if James can’t see it.

“Actually,” James clears his throat, “I’m back to Madison. It’s Vice President Madison now.”

“Hmm.” Alexander tries not to feel offense on the behalf of Thomas’s legacy.

“You wish I was a Hamilton?” James jokes, but it’s all for appearances,  They both know what this call is really about. It had been a long time coming.

“Was it worth it?”

James smile collapses quickly into nothingness, too knowing of Alexander’s tone of voice to think the question is innocuous. Two years is long enough to piece together the clues left in the wake of Thomas’s death.  He had gotten so good at playing a role over the years, it was almost exhausting.

Still, “Was what worth it?” James asks the question, plays the game.

“Killing Thomas so you could play second fiddle to Burr.”

“I didn’t kill my husband.”

“He was awake before I left. I know you must have spoken to him.”

“He never regained consciousness.”

“He called me, James!”

“Not possible.” James is sharp in his response, “You saw the news.”

“I know what the administration did to the Washington reports as well.” Alexander replies, “Just because it airs as news doesn’t make it true.” He doesn’t mean to implicate himself, but James has to know that he’s serious. That he will pursue this if he doesn’t get what he wants.

“Alex. He was an alcoholic. He had blood thinners in his system. He was shot, lost massive amounts of blood.” James sighs, “I know it hurts, but it is what it is.”

“I saw the pictures from the funeral. Did you even cry?”

“I can’t.” James shrugs, even though Alexander can’t see it. “The doctors said that foreign material caused my tear ducts to scar over.” It’s a secure line, but still, James is cautious. The knowledge that Thomas was abusive is enough to assign him a motive.

“The wedding crystal?”

“Glass is a foreign material.”

“What **happened** to you?”

“I can’t be as soft as Adams was.” James says plainly, “Politics is about optics, Alex.”

“I know; Washington made sure of that.”

“You can’t rely on his name to make up for your shortcomings forever. Take responsibility for yourself, will you?”

“Who else knew?”

“That’s not really what you want to ask, Alexander.” James says softly. Alexander grits his teeth as he glances back at the man asleep in his bed. Alexander had sailed all the way to England to get away from it all, and somehow ended up in love with James again.

“No.”

“You want to know if your boyfriend knew that Thomas was going to be shot before it happened.”

“Yeah. I mean, he published the recording. He was John's friend. He wasn't shaken up like the other civilians.”

 

“Xander,” Hercules’ voice is hoarse as he turns over, still half-asleep. “Come back to bed.”

Alexander covers the receiver before speaking to the ruffled expression of Hercules’ face. “I have an early meeting, darling.”

A snort comes from the phone, and Alexander snaps his attention back to Vice President Madison. “You’re lying to him already? At least you waited a year before you started lying to me. Doesn’t he deserve the truth, _darling_?”

“Don’t I?”

“You’ve always had a hard time… discerning that which you deserve.” James says, and Alexander can imagine James pouring a glass of scotch. Given the time difference, it’s almost midnight over there. He wonders if James is using Thomas’s tumblers, or if James threw them out after Thomas was no longer a viable candidate for re-election, “You should ask Hercules yourself. Unless you’re too frightened of the answer.”

“Did you ever love him?”

James pulls the phone away to stare at it in confusion. “Hercules?”

“Your _husband_ ,” Alexander growls, “The president, Thomas.”

“I loved my Thomas, then my husband. In that order.” James says slowly, “I loved the president for a time; but he always seemed to prefer his whores in the Oval to my company. You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

“James,” Alexander drags a hand down his face as he closes the door behind him. In the safety of the ensuite, he whispers, more to himself than James, “what do you expect me to say?”

“Something like:  _my condolences,_ or _congratulations on the veep nomination_ , _or sorry I waited two years to call._ Any of those three things would be appropriate.”

“I won’t lie.”

“ _Mhmm_.”

Alexander decides, perhaps against better judgement, to elaborate, “I’m glad he’s dead. He hurt me more than you know. You know what he was capable of because you stood by and watched it happen. You're still defending his legacy like he wasn't... Like he didn't hurt people. You shouldn’t be Vice President, you're no better than he was. I still have nightmares about Washington, but Thomas is in there an awful lot, too. Getting away from it all was a necessity, and I’m not sorry.”

“That’s a lot of words just to tell me to go screw myself.” James chuckles, a warm and inviting sound that caresses the walls of the ensuite bathroom. “And I know you didn’t call me at midnight just to tell me I should go screw myself.”

“It’s just after four here.” There’s a pause, as though James is waiting for Alex to continue. When he doesn’t offer anything else, James continues:

“I know. Which is why I was surprised by your call, to be honest. You should be in bed.” The glass in James’s hand lands on the table with a clunk, and it’s a small comfort for Alex to know that he can still read James like a book. It's greatly outweighed by the prospect of a drunk James. “You know how fretful Hercules can get when you’re out of his sight for too long.”

Unable to resist, Alexander probes, “When was the last time you had sex with him?”

“Why? You trying to compare score?” James snaps, “It’s been two years, Alexander! I am tired of all the questions about Thomas. I don’t need them from you as well.”

“Must be getting harder to keep your story straight, huh?”

“I didn’t kill him, Alexander. I swear to you.”

“But you know who did?”

“So do you. _John Laurens, a deranged and disgruntled former DHS employee_.” The words are flat, as though James is reciting from a script. 

“John wasn’t crazy. You know that.”

“He killed Thomas, Alexander. And I know you don’t want to believe that, because then you’ll have to dwell on the _why_ …” James doesn’t hold it against Alex -- could never hold anything against Alex -- but this line of questioning is testing his patience.

“John only shot him. But Thomas didn’t die from those wounds, I’m telling you!”

“How the fuck would you know? I don’t think you understand that I spent my wedding anniversary talking to a corpse! That I had to stay strong for the public eye, like my heart didn’t die with him. Like I wasn’t on the verge of breaking down every time I saw Sally walk the halls, or smelt scotch, or looked in the mirror… and why? Because you decided that a drunken one-night stand was the best way to get your revenge on Thomas for stealing me. Like your cheating didn’t hurt me, too.”

Alexander can’t argue with that. But he’ll try to anyway. “…Sometimes, I think ab-about us and wh--”

“Don’t.” James’s voice is sharp. “Don’t you fucking dare. You didn't even come to the funeral, and you have the nerve to talk about _us_. There is no us, Alexander. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“James--”

“No, you don’t get to use people anymore, Alex!” James yells, and Alexander knows he’s hit a nerve. James never yells out of anger, most people would be surprised James was capable of the emotion. “You don’t get to use people until they’re no longer convenient, and then throw them away when it suits you. ”

“Wait, I never…” His denial can’t reach his lips fast enough, and he lets it fades into the back of his brain instead, “Tell me how he died. I want to know if he suffered.”

“You don’t have the security clearance for that.”

Alexander isn’t sure what he’s asking for, exactly. “Just… please?”

 

James sighs. And Alexander cannot ignore the weighty silence that stretches across the line. “Burr is a good president, and he didn’t once use Thomas’s vices against him during the campaign. He knew our marriage was having problems, and he still played it clean.” Alexander wants to ask where this is going, but thinks better than to interrupt. “Th-Thomas raped Burr. I checked for myself. It happened years ago, but it happened. So, maybe it isn’t so bad if he suffered.”

"Did Thomas..." Alexander fills with dread, as the next words leave his mouth of their own accord. "Was Charles Lee telling the truth?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't want to know."

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't  _care_ , James." Had Alexander's blind faith in Thomas enabled another president to rule with impunity over his constituents? Had Charles Lee's quest for justice been sidelined because everyone followed unquestionably down the path Thomas directed?

"You're right. I didn't." James says matter-of-factly. "Because even if it was the truth, Lee was just some money-grabbing addict who had delusions of grandeur."

"Because that's how you had Director Reynolds paint him." Never before had Alexander heard James regard someone so cruelly. Perhaps he had always been more politically-minded than he let on. Better at measuring his temper.

"Because that's who the papers say he was," James corrects. "And Charles Lee, whether it was consensual or not, is just another man my husband decided to stick his prick in. Why do you even care?"

Alexander doesn't know why. "How did you find out Lee was dead?"

"You told me."

"No." Alexander states, "I didn't. I know I didn't. I told you that he dropped the charges. Now, how did you know?" Alexander asks the question even though isn't particularly sure he wants the answer.

James obfuscates. "Ask Hercules."

"How did you know, James!"

"You don't have the security clearance for that," James says softly, "but I can tell you that it still keeps me up at night."

James remembers looking dreamily at his husband, so powerful before the scotch tainted his system and skewed his decision-making, and so small in that hospital bed. Remembers the loopy, leaning strokes as Thomas signs his signature on the bottom of Laurens' clipboard. It's a bitter reminder that his position as First Gentleman was ornamental, supported only as long as Thomas felt like it. But James didn't have to worry about that anymore.

The response isn't what Alexander was hoping for, but it's enough to whet his appetite. It's also enough to feed his imagination with unverifiable possibilities as to how the squeaky-clean Charles Lee ended up being gunned down in a supposed botched home invasion. Alexander had read that script before.  Alexander almost doesn't hear the words that follow, syllables drowned out by the dripping faucet. Hercules should get that fixed. 

"He tried to  _kill_ me, Alexander."

“Divorce was still an option. I gave you _options_.”

“And a plane ride away from Washington was an option, but we both know the realities of such a thing.” The sound of James swallowing gives Alexander time to process the words. "I'm sorry I couldn't pardon Laurens. I truly am. I know you... cared for him." 

James can't help but replay his last conversation with Laurens. He has tried to assuage his guilt of Laurens' sentencing by donating the handsome severance package promised to the lieutenant colonel. It doesn't work, but feeding the poor means one less demon haunting his dreams.

"Do you still love me?" Alexander asks. They both know the answer, and the question is unnecessary on the face of it. But Alexander needs to know. He doesn't need an answer, he just  _needs to know_. The silence that fills the line betrays James in the space of three seconds. "James.."

James always had a soft spot for Alexander, even when he was insufferable. he was endearing. And that soft spot is a weakness to be exploited, for better or worse. He breaks first, “What was the last thing he said to you, when he called?”

Bingo. “So you admit he was alive?”

“I’m asking an innocent question.” The statement is an effort at nonchalance, but Alexander can hear the strain plain as day. James was never a very good liar. A terrible quality for a politician to possess.

“He said that he missed me, and that he wished he'd stepped down before he let the liquor take control again. He knew he was going to die, and he said that he'd be okay if it was with you.”

“Mhmm.” James hums. Alexander knows that _Mhmm._ “So, what do you need me for?”

“What’s the last thing he said to you?”

James swallows around the lump in his throat. In the silence, Alexander can hear the clock ticking in the vice president’s ceremonial office, and Hercules tossing on the other side of the door.

“I-it doesn't matter what my husband's last words were, not really. You want to know if I...” James clears his throat. “H-he said that he loved me, that he forgave me, and that he was sorry. He said..."  Alexander hears the sloshing of liquid, and knows James is pouring another glass, if only to steel his nerves. "He held my hand, and he s-smiled at m-me as I pushed the pillow down over his face and held it th-there until he s-stopped m-mo…” A sob rips its way out James’s mouth and James shakes his head in an attempt to stave off the memory. The words rush out at supersonic speed, all but crashing around Alex's ears. “Itwastheonlyway…”

“ _Jesus Christ.”_ Alexander doesn’t know what to say to that. For some reason, Alexander notes, powerful men always seem to weep when finally cornered into surrender. A few seconds pass as James attempts to compose himself.

“A-are you going to tell Hercules?” James asks. If Alex wants to, James won't stop him. Part of him wants to go down for this, wants to let himself go down in the flames of disgrace. Besides, if James is gonna go down, it’s only fitting that it be Sally or Hercules that put the nail in his proverbial coffin. Playing this game of secrets is something that he's getting too old for.

“I would never betray you like that.” Alex says truthfully, running a hand through his hair. It must be a mess. “I’m sorry Washington made us all…” The word he's looking for evades him, but James knows what he means.

“Me too.” James gulps down the rest of his glass, then clears his throat, “Anyway, I guess it doesn't matter what you do, we all end up in the same place.”

“James, I don't hold it against you.”

"He gave it to you, y'know, in the will. He gave you  _our wedding ring_ in the will." The Vice President's voice is pure bitterness and confusion, and James’s response makes Alex wonder if his words even registered at all. “Y-you should probably get back to bed, cuddle up to your boyfriend -- _the man who actually loves you_ \-- and pretend this phone call never happened.”  
Alexander can't tell if James means it as a jab at Thomas, Hercules, Alex, or himself. Still, if you hear James tell it, the words come out harsher than intended; but James, for the first time in a decade, can't make himself feel any guilt for the crudity of his speech.

Over the years, Alexander had let his mind wonder what would have happened if Washington hadn't controlled his career, if the British had won the war, if Lafayette was still alive, if he and Thomas had been friends, if he and James had… The possible alternatives were endless.

Still, he knows that in all the alternatives, where the political animals of Capitol Hill stay far away, in all the scenarios where James stays in Virginia, they are all better for it.

The British win the war and Washington is executed for treason.  
Alexander stays on St. Croix and marries a young woman, buys a plantation, and lives his life out as a wealthy sugarcane planter.   
Laurens does not have to outrun his father's name, doesn't need to enlist in a war to bring himself honour. He enjoys life as a playboy, romancing men and women alike.   
Thomas doesn't become president. Doesn't die. Maybe he still marries James. Maybe he isn't hardened by Washington's abuse and Alexander never learns what it means to feel someone's hands around his throat.   
Hercules and Lafayette stay together. They open a bookstore after Laf finishes school, and Herc takes a job teaching at the nearby university.   
James remains soft, safe from Mercer's clutches. He marries someone sweet enough to complement him perfectly and they raise kids strong and smart enough to change the world.

  
James wouldn't be a murderer.

“I hate what New York did to you.”

“I hate me too.” James concedes, even if it isn't exactly what Alexander meant. His eyes are still wet, but tears don’t escape his eyes. His crying is silent now.

“I’ll come visit soon…” Alexander says although they both know it’ll never happen. Maybe two years ago, Alexander would have meant it.

James rejects the offer anyway, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Goodnight, Mister Vice President,” Alexander nods, although James can’t see it. “I hope to god it was worth it.”

" _Mhmm,_ " James says wistfully, “Goodnight, Hamilton.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the SERIES is complete!
> 
> I spent almost 3 years writing this from beginning to end, and this 'verse will always be near and dear to my heart. I wanted to play with the idea: "How many 'bad' things can [a protagonist] do before they are no longer likeable?" So, the last 3 instalments, "Hamartia" in particular, are intended as a test for that.  
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to comment if you liked it (or didn't, to be honest).
> 
> There's also an alternative ending where [redacted] doesn't [spoiler] so [redacted] and [redacted] end up [spoiler].  
> (You'll know what I mean.)


End file.
